Trim Tram Donovan

Buck in the Custodian Closet

Two paintings in my bedroom. One I created and one that was given to me. Not certain how feng shui it is, but they are facing each other, almost opposing. One painting seems organized and formed from structure while the other comes from a storm of chaos that must have some direction that it was going. I can look at both of them and appreciate what both of them is saying. But my painting speaks to me more. There is some nostalgia in looking at it. The creation and the way it lays to canvas and becomes something that you made from scratch. Even if it's been called by one friend who is a painter as "not good", it still does what I need it to do. Hang there and amuse me.

******

Over the past ten months or so, money's been tight. Single dollar bills along with five's and ten's have been put into a coffee cup in order to help save $600 to sign up for 2011 Ironman Wisconsin. Even in times when I had to sell off things to pay for gas or food, the jar remained untouched. It's been tight but I knew there might be relief in sight. Being part of a divorce and the cost involved as well as the adjustment into the cost of living by yourself takes its toll.

I sold my triathlon bike in order to pay rent. The buyer asked me why I wanted to sell it and I told him that it was "just too much bike. I just need a road bike." It was a true statement but it's not why I was selling it.

Without a bike and a athletic base workout that was severely laking, I still had my coffee cup full of cash to sign up for this race in September of 2011. At least I had the registration fees.

I took the kids to early registration, thanks to my volunteerism with Ironman Wisconsin. We got into the Monona Terrace where registration took place on the floor below. The kids and I take the escalator down to find the room full of people who were registering.

Our whole trek to this place is being mult-tasked with Franny's stories about middle school. There are times when she can talk about people, places and things for as long as she has breath. Ian stumbles along, holding my hand. Sometimes needing to be carried. Something a 5 year old should be trying to quit. And during Ian's struggles up or down, Franny continues with her stories.

We make it to the front of the line after waiting and we approach the registration table. Franny quiets down and Ian stands by me while I answer a number of questions. They are simple and she asks for my money and I give her my debit card. Seems less dramatic now. Maybe I should have brought the mug and the cash for the full effect.

We left the building and the kids were quiet and so was I. We held hands. I wondered how I could get a bike and when to start training. I wondered how I could train with the schedule I have now that I'm a part time single parent. I wondered what challenges were ahead of me this time.

*****

Franny stood next to me at the computer while I showed her an article about her school. DEER FOUND INSIDE BADGER RIDGE MIDDLE SCHOOL. She was in awe of the idea that right after she left, this large mammal snuck into the school and found its way into the custodian's closet. Her eyes large with shock and amazement, wondered how this could happen and laughed about it.

The next day, I picked her up from her friend's house after school when she got the case of the chatties again. She spun this tale of the eight point buck that made its way into the school by smashing the windows. The large male deer felt stuck in the outside since it wandered into a courtyard. It looked for ways to get into the windows and couldn't get into the building. It thought that the windows would provide escape. When, in fact, getting into the building would only provide four walls--enclosed into brick walls. 

As it cased the windows, it found a window to smash into and got into an empty classroom. When it walked into the hallway, it was scared frozen since the hallway floors were so slippery. It would slide and slip for a momentary attempt to walk. As one teacher grabs a broom, he slowly walks closer to the buck. The onlookers are told to stay calm and still while they are in their classrooms. He is in a static position with his broom while the deer is relatively still. The young and old onlookers stayed in the doorway, watching.

The teacher extends the broom and gains contact with the deer. The deer sees this but is frozen on the slippery floor. He starts pushing and gains enough torque to slide the animal on all fours across the floor into the custodian's closet. He quickly shuts the door and traps the animal.

Soon after, he called animal control. They came to the middle school and ushered the buck to an exit. On the exit, it ran like it was running away from something, never looking back.

"How were there kids still there?" I asked Franny since this occurred after school was out.

"There were clubs and activities going on," She told me frankly, "Why would it want to get into the building?" 

"Maybe it knew that if it had to go where the people were, so it can be helped. Sometimes we know that the bigger challenges lead us to where we want to go."

Franny nods her head and smiles, "Ok....."

 

 

Ratatouille

There is an up and down of having a DVD player in your car along with large, beautiful screens that broadcast movies. We (I'm including me) love turning on movies and watching them. It becomes pretty easy. But while I drive, I can only listen to movies when they're broadcast over the speakers while Franny and Ian are free to view them in glorious full view, stereo speakers.

We hit a one week spell where Ratatouille played over and over again. There was a soliloquy that played after a critic visits the protagonists' restaurant and it surprised me in a very compelling, moving way.

As many people might tell you, I can cry at the end of virtually every movie. Frankly, I would cry at just about anything if it hit me the right way. When Brett Favre stepped onto the football field the Sunday after his father passed away, I cried. When Sarah McLaughlin sang "When Somebody Loves You" in Toy Story 2, I cried.

I listened to this monologue and thought how wonderful it was. I was on the verge of tears listening to it but I found that biting my tongue will help in that area.

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations, the new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau's, who is, in this critic's opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau's soon, hungry for more."

24 Hours

The clock illuminated my bedroom. The windows were open and boasted silence since I cursed the birds who usually sit right outside my window. Silhouettes of pine trees were out there. The walls, glowing blue from the clock, framed that picture nicely. I rolled over and finally gave into reading the time. 2:54AM BLOCK LETTERS. It's such a cold way of telling me it's very early.

I tried a number of ways to go back to sleep. Music. Reading. Television. Milk. Reciting an internal story while my eyes are shut. The stories usually turn unfortunate. Knee jerk.

I'll just get up. There's a web site that needs to be finished building. A pot of coffee gets brewed while I walk around the kitchen. I look at things in the pantry. In the refrigerator. Pick up some extraneous materials on the floor of the oven so it doesn't set off the fire alarm again. Coffee's done.

Pour a big cup and walk to the computer and pour through the site. Inside two hours, I'm finished with it. It's 5AM. I send an email and tell the client. I'm pretty sure she's amazed by the fact that I completed it inside twelve hours.

Run. I can run! I'm full of coffee! But I haven't run in about three weeks. I vow to go around the Arb full out. 

I'm two miles in. Good.

I'm three miles in. My mind is racing. I'm alone. I see some people and I give the 'hey' but ultimately, I am alone. Training for no race other than Ironman Wisconsin that's set for over 18 months from now. In that way, I feel like I'm not even training. I have nothing in front of me to feel inspired. It's an amazing day but there's nobody running the arboretum? When I'm swimming, I feel like the water is keeping me company. Even if it IS my enemy. It's still company. When I run, it's something holy but ultimately lonely. Is finding loneliness mean finding God? By the time I'm at the end of the arboretum, I duck into the trees and cry. I'm not a mess. I'm just tired. I couldn't get back to sleep. Harumph. Run home.

The shower is amazing. Hot. Soothing.

I head to work and I have list of eleven goals for the day. The best case scenario involves me finishing the list and leaving at 2:45PM. Out of complete surprise, I make the best case scenario happen. Task lists are priceless.

The 2:45 was part of the plan since I was promised a walk with a friend at 3PM from my house. 

If you're not divorced or separated, then I want to help you understand this part of my story. It seems to be a common element of every divorce. There's a new life out there waiting. You gain things that are new and different. One of the things you will gain are friends. Some of these friends are friends who build stronger bonds. Some of these friends are those who were acquaintances who stepped up and want to help. The others are new friends. These people only know you as a person who is not really part of a marriage. And those new acquaintances can work both ways, really good and really uncomfortable.

I met somebody once who went running with me. I got the impression that she was mildly interested in me and as I revealed elements of what I was going through, she became increasingly disappointed (or at least that was my read on her face). 

A few weeks ago, we went for a run and we learned about each other.

"You're 38? You don't look that old." She nicely tells me.

"Thanks."

Later as facts are revealed, she learns much more.

"So you're going through a divorce?" She asks after I talk about it.

"Yes."

After the run, she's up at my place.

"So you have two kids?"

"Yes."

To a 30 year old, single unmarried woman, I'm something that is riddled with issues. I have unresolved issues, strict schedules and in the process of financially starting over.

My 3:00 appointment was somebody who I met after I moved out. Like myself, she has two kids and is unattached (divorced, actually). She's strong and she's smart. She's confident and funny. She listens and she starts conversations. We met in a peculiar place. We've continued to meet and talk about anything and everything.

After we sit on my front porch, my promised walk becomes a simple sitting on the porch and talking. From the seven rocking chairs on my porch, we take two and put our feet up. My feet found a ledge and her feet had soles that gripped onto a load bearing pillar but they continually slipped time and again. I was certain that her shoes that slipped from the wall were the very same shoes she wore during her run that morning.

She says that her little five miles aren't much to me. I tried to tell her that effort is simply perception (in a roundabout way).

She left for her 5:00PM appointment. When she was gone, I thought it was a really good time to start drinking beer.

Two beers later, I sent a text to Christina. Every Tuesday, I would walk or drive over to Bruce & Christina's to watch Lost. When Lost decided to close its doors, Christina simply continued to meet up. I would drive or walk over and we did whatever. We had plans like, "We'll watch a new show every week" or "We'll watch a new movie every week". It simply turned into hanging out every Tuesday. What a great concept. Just hang out. Something to count on. In my situation, I don't have many constants. And I love schedules, constants, etc. It also helps when they have a great support system with family & neighborhood. In times when it feels like you're bathing in the flames of hell, support systems are like avenging angels who shrug their shoulders and don't know they're making a difference, when in fact, demons are being killed. Do I make sense?

As we sit on their stairs drinking beer, the burgers and chicken fingers in their styrofoam containers are being eaten. Neighbors, one by one, come over. It becomes an impromptu gathering. To me, this was like a miracle. And that's why I say that they are like avenging angels slaughtering demons. 

I walked to their house full of sleep deprivation and frustration. Emotions kick up during emotional times. Now, those things were all gone.

There were arguments, laughter and conversation. "What!?" one person asks me, "You're really going to the midnight show?!"

"I was talked into it."

"You'll never do it."

Just then, I decided I was definitely doing it. Spite, to me, is the best reason to do things. It is a very simple version of rebellion.

"I'll be there."

The neighbors slowly made their way back to their homes along Commonwealth Avenue in Madison. I was there with Bruce & Christina's family. I told them I needed to walk back to meet my friends at 10:00PM.

I got home, got in my car and made my way to a midnight premier of "Eclipse".

"I brought you what you needed." I was meeting three friends from a non-profit board. In some way, they found each other as Twilight fans then told me that I needed to be there. I had even gotten a text earlier this day from this woman saying, "I can't believe that you haven't backed out yet." I was never somebody to back away and now I had spite on my side. She handed me a flask of Southern Comfort that she knew only by request, "What kind of booze do you need?"

By the time that we made it to the theater, it was a wonder what we should do until the midnight show. Somebody brought Twilight trivia cards. She quizzed me on back story material and I was happy to make up answers that were completely wrong since I was no fan of these films.

"Who is Elizabeth Masen?"

"She was Gloria Vanderbilt's Mother who eventually became the heiress to the Jessica Simpson Foundation. She was a vampire who drank human blood."

"No. It was Edward's mother."

"Right."

The movie starts. I watch. And I watch. And I watch. Spite is a powerful tool. OK, maybe not "super" powerful. I fall asleep. 

I wake up and the primary characters Bella and Edward are in a field talking about when she can become a vampire.

"You fell asleep."

"Right."

I drive. I get home. I walk into the bedroom. The clock illuminated my bedroom. The windows were open and boasted silence since I cursed the birds who usually sit right outside my window. Silhouettes of pine trees were out there. The walls, glowing blue from the clock, framed that picture nicely. I get into bed and finally gave into reading the time. 2:54AM BLOCK LETTERS. It's such a cold way of telling me it's very late. I have to get some sleep.

I have open water swim tomorrow.

Moving

Burping has always been interesting topic I was glad to share. I have this thing where I belch an aberration of a belch. Like what I imagine a baby Tyrannosaurus Rex would yelp, it has a certain wail to it that is high pitched and short. Burping was a topic immediately after one of these belches, "I can't burp." This shocked many people.

"How can you not burp?" was the typical question.

"I just have never really burped." 

Surprisingly, I found myself burping out of the blue over the past three months. I'm not sure what happened.

During that time, I had been changing some of my lifestyle habits. I was sleeping on the couch much more regularly. I was eating food that was in very little portions, spread over many times in the day. Increasingly, our marriage was having problems. I began moving out during the week of Thanksgiving.

I found my burp coming to me, typically, while I drove back and forth from the house . I'm not sure if it was because it was I was sitting very upright or if it was the one time during the day when I wasn't eating, so my stomach was burping and catching up.

Whatever the reason, the burp was there permanently. And I understood with my gut (get it?), that there would be no way to go back. I was stuck with the burp. 

Once the toothpaste was out, it couldn't be put back into the tube. 

Exercise has taken a back seat to a mild depression. I haven't immersed myself in the swim in long time. Runs have become sporadic but tacking on long miles--possibly threatening my body into injury. I see that. I'm trying to stop the long miles and make smaller runs over a number of days but I decide over and over again to stay in bed.

Living in a new place (and owning a new type of belch), I see that I have to change up the way I do things. I'm not sure what exactly I have to do. I guess it started with moving and now it seems to be taking on a life of its own. Giving me things and taking away things. Changing the way people see me and how I interact with everyone. I have to adjust accordingly, remaining honest.

The Kickboard Under the Torso

As the melting and recovering of snow struggles, the hassle of digging your way out of this horrible weather continues. People tell me how ready they are for Spring. I'm ready too. I also feel a sense of not wanting to speed things up.

"Over the past month you've improved immensely." I was told at last night's swim class. I didn't answer him but nodded as I cleared up my goggles that continuously fogs up. We had many more laps of swimming at a high speed left.

After the speed swim, I had yet another couple laps of swimming on top of a kickboard. This drill tests your mental capacity to stay focused on your body keeping the board under you while you move forward. Last week, I was left with my board popping out from under me about three or four times per length. It would stay in my lane sometimes and other times it went into other lanes. My record is two lanes.

I struggled keeping the board under me and I made the personal oath that I would just move forward. I tried to tell myself, just maintain the long neck and straight back (at the instructor's suggestion) to keep it under me. The board wiggled and twitched and found its way out from under me and popped up to the first lane--two lanes away.

In horror, I spotted it and knew I had to grab it before somebody swam into it and became annoyed with my regular incompetence. I looked across the two lanes at the orange board floating. Swimmers drove their bodies up and down lanes disregarding anything around them. Typically, you don't have to worry about people swimming perpendicular in the pool.

Today, though, I had to get across to grab my board. I look both ways and crossed. Ducking under the lines, I made it to the first lane. In the second lane, I waited for the traffic to pass and I swam under the line to grab the board and try to swim under both lines back to my area. It had suddenly turned from a game of position my body into a game of underwater Frogger.

I was a mess and continued to let the board pop out from under me. I spoke the word "Sorry." more times than I think I ever have.

Last night, I was surprised to find myself finishing a lap while keeping the board under my torso the whole length.

But I was so tired from the speedwork. My shoulders and arms are sore today. The work I'm accomplishing in this class is great but I worry about what lies ahead. I look foward to warm weather and I need it but I worry what it brings. I don't think I need more heartache that I got from past triathlon experiences but I have to remain poised to be challenged.

The State of the Swim

Masters Swim Class rages on through the dreaded duldrums of late Winter. Jerry continues to pace by all the pool lanes giving notes while we try to accomplish the goals put on a moist piece of paper that sticks to an orange caution cone that sits on the deep end of the water.

We're given workouts that range from very easy to very hard. We're asked to bob in the water 10 times and exhaling all the CO2 from our lungs. We're allowed to come back up only when it's all gone, "When you think you've hit the end of your breath, pause for a second and come up. That will make sure that you have it all out," Jerry instructs us. We're given a plastic cup and told to fill it up with water a third of the way, do the backstroke and hold the cup on the forehead. Balance, as you might expect, is the key to this exercise.

I'm still having problems in certain spots. I've been suggested to rotate my body more so that my core brings my arm around rather than moving my arm. He's also suggested bringing my head more into the water along with my hands during the 'pull' of the stroke. I need to build endurance still. I get winded in a 50 meter workout and it's hard to stay completely relaxed.

There are times when I want to walk away but I keep telling myself that the more I swim, the easier it gets. Even if it's a bad workout, I have to keep swimming.

Jerry tells me that I'm not alone with my issues. He tells me that even guys in other lanes have the type of issues that I have. I know it's supposed to be a comforting thing to say but it only makes me feel more alone in the water for some reason.

The Legend of the Red 2009 VW Routan

Wednesday. The day before Thanksgiving. People driving fast to get condiments or gravy or last minute items that insures safety for their dinner. Those people driving the streets have no inhibitions about who is front of the car or what could potentially happen. Chances are taken and people are hurt. It's probably, in this writer's mind, the most dangerous day (besides December 23rd) to be on the street.

If I could I would stand out on the curb and yell to my friends, "GET HOME! IT'S TOO DANGEROUS! GO HOME! YOU'LL GET HURT!" But, they too, can be hypnotized by the fear that if they don't have TWO cans of cranberries, they might run out at the dinner table.

This year, most notably, I was rushing to close a deal on the car that was about to be mine. The opportunities were too great. Car dealers were knocking off thousands off the sticker price and offering 0% financing to any Joe, even if these were the types of the deals sent this country into a financial tailspin. 

I had to grasp onto this last straw of corporate 'aw shucks' financial givings, especially now that my car was in $1500 of disarray. It was over a decade old with 127,000 miles on it. The CV joints were torn so that I couldn't use the 4 wheel drive and, most notably, could let the tires fall off the axles (or that's the story that I was told). My exhaust system had become so torn off that every right turn had a thump-thump-thump that followed.

After many trips to Zimbrick VW and many conversations with my wife, I finally found a deal and got the paperwork drawn up on the last possible day of zero percent financing.

I came home to tell Jeni, "We just have to show up at 4:00PM and sign the papers. I'll be home before then." I left for a meeting at the local Starbucks.

My appointment, self admittedly, had issues communicating. He spoke in circles at times and I had a hard time figuring out what he needed from me and the race that I help coordinate every year. He carried a pad of paper and a laptop in a black laptop bag. We sat in the back and tried to figure out what were doing there.

At the conversation seemed to wind down, a man who was masqueraded with all black aviator sunglasses runs into the Starbucks to sound the alarm, "WHO HERE OWNS A RED NISSAN PATHFINDER!?"

Everyone's eyes darted to him and I slowly rose from my chair. The people seated in Starbucks innocently drinking their Carmel Macchiato's looked like they had been shocked by my words, "I own a Red Nissan Pathfinder."

"THIS WOMAN HIT YOUR CAR. I'M A WITNESS." A woman slowly comes out from behind him and I approach them, trying to escort out them outside to assess the damage. My meeting partner scooped up his tablet of paper, laptop, laptop bag and jacket. He followed us outside as the girl explained to me, "I guess I mis-read how close I was to your car. Then I scraped it."

I look at the damage and the rear passenger side quarter panel was dented. "I'm not sure if that's a scrape," I tried to soften the blow a little while she wrote down her information and insurance, "I think if there's one car you wanted to hit in this lot, mine was probably the best one to hit since I'm trading it in for another car in about two hours."

During that time, I make some calls. I talk to my insurance guy who gives me his home number in case there are questions later on. I tell Jeni the story. We get to Zimbrick at 4:00 and I tell the sales guy the story. 

He drives the car in the garage to find out how much this fender bender will hurt my trade-in. He comes back and tells me, "They're telling me $500-$800." He gives me a long look like I'm supposed to answer.

OK. I'm calling Bob Wink, Insurance Agent. Home line.

He was a little upset, "Jeez, these guys! Just tell him that you'll knock off $400 and use the phrase 'Appearance Allowance'. They're just wholesaling the thing anyways!" Wink went on for a while.

I simply told the sales guy, "I'll tell you what Wink told me. He told me to find out if you can meet me at $400 for an Appearance Allowance."

"No shame in asking." the sales guy tells me as he walks to my car and drives it back to the garage.

Jeni and I are now dealing with two extremely bored children. We're too sold on this car to give it up now. We've been in the dealership for an hour and we haven't gotten any closer to getting this car. It's after 5:00 the night before Thanksgiving. It's dark and we're hungry. 

In about three minutes, the sales guy is back, "We talked to three wholesalers and it's about $500-$600 of damage but we'd be willing to go to $400."

I almost interrupted him, "Awesome. Let's make it happen. Let's buy a car."

Beer never tasted so good as it did that night. Buying a car should not be like this.

I called the girl who hit my car. It was a few days later and figured that it wouldn't hurt. I told her the story and how it seemed to work out. I asked her if she would be interested in splitting the $400 instead of reporting it to the insurance company. She jumped at the chance and told me that it she wanted to pay the whole $400 and how she appreciated being given this opportunity to settle it away from insurance companies.

It's tough business buying a car these days.

Threat of Rain

I went swimming with mi amigos Ivens & Lehmann. There were quite a few people out on the water at Fireman's Park in Verona. All the major lakes in Madison are closed due to high bacteria count. This is a nice way of saying "it got hot pretty fast and we haven't clean the feces as quickly as we should." Now Verona has the only local open water swimming.

I actually had a pretty fun time. We talked quite a bit at the beginning then swam out towards the end of the quarry. As we returned, we sited the blue slide to swim back in. I may have taken swimming a little too lightly because I started hyper-ventilating a little bit at the end. I allowed myself to calm down and get back to it.

We worried because the clouds looked pretty ominous the whole time were there. Rain was very possible but it held off. Nice luck we had!

My car was at 'empty'. I needed gas in a big way. I made it to the urban BP located next to a Mobil. I put my debit card in BP's self-serve fuel station. It immediately read an error 'PAY THE CASHIER' though I hadn't even put any gas in my car.

When I walked in, there were three people in line waiting. The man at the cash register was talking on his Jabra headset, looking worried. The men in line were pretty obviously immigrants who were on their way to work, purchasing food and drink for the day. One of them was shaking his head laughing at what a ridiculous site this cashier had produced. People were waiting while he looked like he was talking to himself.

The man in front of me said something to the effect, "Ce gars gaspille mon temps! He he!"

I nodded. I was behind schedule as it was, so I began to leave. The man laughed even more and said something else in Spanish.

I smiled back and answered, "Adios, Amigo."

"Adios!" he laughed.

I got into the car and flipped down the mirror in the sunblind. Was there something in my teeth or something?

I drove to Mobil next door and got gas.

Awwww, Man!

I was turning right onto Williamson Street. A bright yellow car with a woman driving it (alone, mind you!) was behind me while I sat at the right turn red light where a sign reads, "No Turn on Red Light". I sat there and observed the woman behind me stretching her neck to see something out of her sight line.

I believe she was looking to see why I was just sitting there while traffic was clear. She was surely preparing herself for a small honk but the light changed just in time.

That was one close call.

To My Department: A Letter I Wrote My Friends on the Way Out

In one episode of "The Office", Michael Scott's dysfunctional philosophy suddenly reveals one opinion that may have some truth to it. As one employee double crosses him he informs Michael, "Sorry, Michael it's not personal, it's just business."

Michael replies back, "Business is personal."

It would be easy to tell yourself that work doesn't mean anything. To go home at night and leave everything behind has an appeal to it. I thought I could do that. At my first job out of college, I made the mistake of making a fake sick day (I was a lot more ballsey those days). When I took one of my "sick days" to take part in a play (that's another story), he showed up. I thought I was going to be fired right there. I got that pit in my stomach that you only get when big things are on the line.

The next day, I showed up to work and the production manager Lou asked me to go outside and have a cigarette with him. As we smoked, Lou told me that he was ready to kill me. He couldn't believe that I deceived him. He said, "If I didn't like you, I would fire you. You've helped me out in binds and you work hard. Christ, you're like my third son. And not in a good way." That was my first clue that work (at least to what we do) is hard to pull apart into neat compartments that places events and decision-making into two easy, neat piles of "Work" and "Business".

Is it something unique to our business? Maybe. We work on these projects that come from our imagination. A very personal place that creates something we can see and enjoy. When the artist Christo had put up "The Gates" in New York City's Central Park, he said that he didn't care what people thought. His wife (and collaborator) Jean-Claude said, "It's like a child. Something we created, something we love." Maybe the work we do is something like that. And we sit together like a support group for what we do as professionals.

It's at this point that we find ourselves emotionally attached to our work. We create and admire/bemoan what we've done. We enjoy the process and we get frustrated. It's this thing that's not even real. It's zeroes and ones etched onto a magnetic tape. It's not a table made from hardwood. It's not a skyscraper. It's just air. You can't hold onto it. Then, we find ourselves understanding that it's not just about work. Maybe people are the inspiration for life and living. The true connections that surprise us and reveal the true beauty of what friendship and comraderie can mean.

My uncle Arthur McNulty was an Episcopal rector for dozens of years. He died suddenly after my mother. His car was pulled over on a highway while he suffered a massive stroke. His wife could only sit there and try to comfort him. Before there were cell phones, an occurance like this left my Uncle Skip helpless. I, along with many others, found comfort in sermons that he still had on casette tape. His wife (my Aunt Kitsy) and his two kids (my cousins) compiled those sermons and published them. They also made a compilation of them onto a professionally engineered tape. I took those recordings and recorded them into my computer. I hope that I can keep them forever. His work was very personal, very spontaneous and humorous. The work he did was very personal.

I turned to these recordings time and time again during Ironman training. Faith is something I needed. Maybe I relied too much on them. Maybe I should have been in the water during that time.

One of his sermons is based on a poem. It's called "People Whisper God to Me". It talks about beautiful scenery and majestic granite walls but, in the end, it doesn't measure up to what we mean to each other.

I will always hold each of you special in my heart because I thought I belonged here. I thought that I could see myself here for a dozen years.

When things started falling apart at home, I knew I had to make a difficult decision. I'm not even sure if this is going to fix it. I guess that's the scary part.

I promise to run my 50-miler. I promise to dedicate more time to making sure Franny gets genuine homework time. I promise to try to finish Ironman someday. I promise to work on my second book. I might work on a short film.

I have only a few bits of advice: Help yourself to the 15 month old red Rolo. Don't talk shit about me to the new guy. Talk shit about me to the new guy. Don't warn him about Covance. Don't tell him that Stark is coming back. When you see Kevin Fulk, simply say "Fulk!" Use Firstcom.com--it's a great resource. Spend $15 on lunch. Eat a burrito. Play Wii until your arms hurts. If someone needs your help, see what you can do. If you see a challenge, take it. Some chances are worth taking.

Your Pal,

Steve Donovan