Trim Tram Donovan

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.

Losing the Buoy

Today was the first day of open water swim class. If there's something I'm prepared for, it's swimming in open water. This is the first summer when I could graduate from simply lingering around and doing my own thing to joining class and participating in the workouts.

In the past, it produced too much anxiety to take part in the class. It was like participating in a stress fest two to three times a week. Why would I want to put myself through something like being pushed into a full elevator and letting the bottom drop out. And you're expected to remain calm. Why would I want to do that?

I know that's the big question here. I have reasons that are quite simple--from wanting to conquer a fear, the need to take part in triathlons and ultimately the 2011 Ironman Wisconsin.

For the past four years, I have been working to get past my fear of the water. I never thought that it was something that I will have to carry into the water every time. It's only by learning to manage it do I find a way to conquer the fear. By welcoming the fear, I conquer it. It's a rather obtuse way of viewing it but it works for me.

I don't mean to skip over 'learning to manage it'. But I don't want somebody to read this and believe that my way to conquer this fear translates to their fear. Fear Management (Quick I better trademark that!) changes from person to person. Only by facing it time and time again, I have learned to recognize it. After that, I have to find ways to deal with it. 

Dealing means repeating a song or counting strokes/breaths or refraining from sighting. When I refrain from sighting, I find that I get more into a rhythm.

One major source of anxiety comes from sighting the buoy. When I see it, I get flustered that I'm far away. Sometimes, I see it and freak because I'm way off course. Sometimes I don't see it.

This morning's class had two buoys at either end of Fireman's Park. As we were doing laps, I couldn't see the buoy on the east side of the quarry. The sun was so bright that it blasted just about everything out of view. The large orange buoy faded away in the sun's white reflection flooding that side of the water.

When it came time for me (over and over again) to swim in that direction, I had to employ Fear Management (trademark). I allowed myself to swim off course and not worry about running into people or pulling way off course. Everything was going to be ok. I only sighted when I felt I might be getting close to somebody.

When I got kicked in the head, I simply looked up and kept going. I sang a song. Every now and then, I would burp from taking in water.

Apathy and a Bowl of Cinnamon Life

It's usually difficult getting back to something after you've taken a long break. This journal, for example, has been left dark for a few weeks. Somebody once told me that the opposite of love is not hate. Rather, the opposite of love is apathy.

Her argument contended that apathy is the thing that provides the image that you don't care. Letting go for a while looks likes it doesn't matter. This look at apathy is also a comparison to 'hate' as a feeling that still has strong emotions behind it--a driving passion. And while there is passion, there is a fight that is still being made.

I'm getting around to it. Stay.

Since I didn't have swim class for a week, getting back into the water was a bit difficult. Losing practice and drills made for a clumsy swim. My warm up was very slow and my technique had suffered. I let people pass me at pool's end. I would get to the end and swallow a mouthful of water time and again.

All I could do was hope that the drills would agree with me. It started out ok until we got to a set that called on the swimmers to go 50 yards with tennis balls in your hands. At the deep end, you were expected to tread water with just your tennis ball holding hands for at least 15 seconds. This was the drill that was destined to take me down.

My technique got so bad and my speed decreased so bad that I was continuously stopping. After only two laps, I had to stop and collect myself when that old survival instincts started back. I felt like I was drowning and had to save myself--my heart was racing and my stomach was doing backflips. I collected myself and tried to start back again. During this time, my stomach was getting more and more upset.

I got to the other side of the pool and fully expected to throw up. Thanks to my training in college, I knew how to hold back from "tossing my cookies". I swam back a length and got out. I checked in with Jerry and told him that I didn't feel good and stepped away from class.

It was probably not something that most athletes should do. Choosing in between 'fight' and 'flight', I chose flight for my own health. Or, at least, what I thought was a better way to take care of myself.

This decision could be interpreted as apathetic and wimpy. But it was only made to help me come back stronger on Wednesday. And I could have brought up a banana and a bowl of Cinnamon Life into the Verona Natatorium's Masters Swim Class water.

I think it was in the best interest of everybody involved.

Somebody Died

My house has never been this quiet. Ian got burnt out on watching television and told me that he didn't want to watch it (believe it!). He's been playing quietly by himself. Time to time, he'll ask for fruit snacks. There's ice everywhere outside and it's not fit to leave the house. Now I have no excuse.

The Christmas decorations are still up and I need to take them down. There's something depressing about it all. The celebration is over and it's self-admitted too. Unlike the typical parties where you clean up plastic cups and lay on the couch, post-christmas activities force you to take these happy items and put them in a box. It's like I was telling them, "Thank you but we won't need you until next Christmas. Thanks." Wrap them up. Box them away.

Even worse: I was doing it by myself. It was so miserable that I stopped when I spotted a Rubik's Cube and tried to solve it. I realized my denial of obligation and went back to work packing Christmas decorations.

Needles were flying everywhere from the formerly fresh greenery. I carried the tree and the evergreens to the curb. I threw them on top of the ice covered snow piles so The City of Fitchburg can pick it up.

My house has never been this quiet. Ian wants to sit and talk. I let him. After a while, he lets me finish my post holiday duties. 

I talk to somebody who says that packing holiday decorations is like "Somebody died." It's true. You're taking these happy things and tucking them away. Thanks.

The Common Cold

J.P. told me, "Boy, do I sound negative. Must be the cold." She's suffering from the onslaught of the common cold that's hitting us around Madison. You get sick and cranky. Sure. Must be the cold. Or did she mean, "Must be the cold." in terms of today's high was 7 and a low of -7? Naaah. Her disease is at the center so she must be referring to the ailment.

I sat a party last Saturday evening getting the hardest part of my cold. Chills and headaches. Jeni's co-workers were extremely nice and the food was prepared by the host's professional culinary skills. He was French and would gleefully announce, "Help yourself!" But the mixture of cold remedy, clinging symptoms and indigestion (I don't know) seemed to keep me away from any food. The scenes were moving in slow motion in a bad way. That Scotch didn't help.

The cold is all but gone now. My body ramps but up to 100% but it keeps coughing.

I had a list of items for the last minute on these last days before Christmas. My plan was to pick up Franny from a sleep over and head over to Menards Crap World to pick everything up (miscellaneous items like batteries, fireplace wood, CD-R's, CD jewel cases, etc.). I took Franny with me and she interjected too many opinions.

"Could we get that for our house? Our counters are outdated."

"Mom said we should get those."

"Why do we need those?"

"The elevator's right there. Let's go up while we're here."

"Franny," I told her, "just follow me and don't worry about it."

When I got home, I explained to Jeni that I didn't get anything done. I would need to travel out again into the sub-zero weather. The onslaught of last minute shoppers made things only more complicated.

"I have to head out to Target and pick up those things."

Ian heard the magic word: Target. Like a Pavlovian dog hears the bell, he sit up right and shouts, "I WANT TO COME." Almost robotic. To leave him out of this trip would surely produce a fit of rage. Surely his accompaniment would be fine.

"I don't like the Spider Man gloves. I want the Transformer gloves."

"The toys. We need to go to the toys. Go to the tooooooooooys."

"The glasses! Let's stop at the glasses! The glasses!"

"Why can't I geeeeeeeeeeet the Transformer shampoo?"

Real demands made in one real hour. It's tough to simplify it into a blanket statement like, "I don't negotiate with terrorists," because he's my son. And he's 3 and he needs to learn shit like "You're here as a guest. My guest."

I get home with my 6 little items and it takes me about thirty minutes to unload them. The kids are asking me for food or milk or where "Megatron" is located.

It's horrible to write this as Christmas is coming. I should be more forgiving and loving during this time. But, for Christ's Sake, I'm getting over a cold. And I'm cranky. Must be the cold.

The King's Pathway

I wish I knew how to eloquently show again how swimming makes me sick to my stomach. In the past someone sent me a video that (instead of explaining it) showed what it made me feel like:

Now, I want you to play this video four times to yourself. Now play it six more times. Now play it ten more times.

You'll get what it's like for me to take a Masters Swim Class at the Verona Natatorium. The deep end boasts a twelve foot depth on one side that drops off in the middle--marked by a bright red tiled line.

As some may know, I have a tendency to try to sing a song in my head to help clam myself down. Unfortunately, tonight's class forced the red line upon me and I recited the tune "Don't Worry, Be Happy". I wish I could tell you something else. Something more poetic. But my brain was rush to find a song.

This class strikes twice a week. I hope I will get more used to the water. Sorta like how you start telling yourself, "This is just a video. I'm not going to fall off a cliff."

I tell myself, "No one is going to drown. There's a lifeguard here. Nothing can go wrong." And I repeat that very phrase while I sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy".

It's a lonely miserable existence under water.

Ground Decaf Coffee

The ten or so days leading up to an event like a marathon, it's always a good idea to stop excessively drinking coffee. I forgot was I was going to say.

Start over.

When you're training for a marathon and you are close to race day, it's always good to switch off coffee. Not only does it dehydrate the body, but it also lends tension into a fragile being. Fragile being. Fragile. being. Where was this going?

OK. So. I quit coffee. Always good to kick habits now and again, but F**K my head hurts and I need some of that nectar. So sleepy. So sleepy. Decaf's just not doing it for me.

It will help me. It will help me. I am growing so tired. 

What?

What?

What is that F**KIN' noise? It's like a ticking. Oh my God. I have only a few days until race. That isn't like a tell-tale heart bullshit. It isn't. It just isn't. Maybe it's a mouse.

So tired.

Ground Coffee

Every time I make coffee, I see all those millions and millions of grains of ground brown pellets in the bag waiting to be spilled by my hand. I have performed the accidental spill of ground coffee many times. Sometimes, my arm misses the coffee filter and some spills out of the scoop. Sometimes, I simply have scooped too much and by the time the scoop comes to light, it's rolling off the pile of finely ground coffee way too easily.

Today's spill was the most creative spill. I opened a new bag and the adhesive tape stuck to my arm and, out of shock, I straightened my arm and tried to pull it off. The bag is slingshot up and about a quarter of the bag flew all over the kitchen.

Immediately, our dog runs into the kitchen when he hears the ruckus. "Buster, stay!" I hold up my right hand as if I'm a crossing guard and my other hand holds a broom with the dustpan attachment, "Staaaaaaaaaay." Like I'm diffusing a bomb, I gently lower my hand and take the dustpan off the broom and Buster strolls away while his nails click on the Pergo (trademark) floors. I couldn't take that dog eating all that caffeine.

A Case of the Mondays

As a three-year-old, Monday seems to hit harder for Ian. He has no concept of days nor does he have a reason to care. He lives moment to moment. And nothing gives him the reason to think otherwise. We have to badger him into understanding how our lives work then he must conform. 

That is why Mondays hit hard. He must think, "This is great. We're spending these days doing nothing. Just playing and hanging out." Then Monday rolls around again, "Wait. What happened? We were just hanging out and shit and what? I don't want to get off the couch. No, you dress me."

Today, he almost could sense it was a school day. He started off by objecting to any instructions I would give, "No, Dad." He held up his hand as if he were blocking my words, "No, Dad, don't talk."

It worked wonders because it rendered me pretty speechless.

I drove into work and escapades on the beltline did not disappoint. The rogue vehicle cutting in front of cars, no matter what lane. Acting as though they had a human organ to deliver before it was too late. But I suspect that it had little to do with human life but rather the disregard for it.

One car that chose to cut me off today had a bumper sticker imploring, "COEXIST". The letters were represented by a number of religious symbols. It cut me off and decided to sit on my front fender.

I wanted to tell the car, "No, car. No bumper stickers." 

My Latest Cross to Bear

There are two types of employees in vehicle repair shops. The guys who actually fix the cars (we'll call them 'techs') and the meet & greet guys (we'll call them 'the know-it-alls'). When I visit a garage, I typically want to talk to the techs because they won't give you crap and just tell you what you need done. The Know-It-Alls have learned a couple things about cars from the techs or they were techs who didn't like working in a garage. Both types of Know-It-Alls believe that they have a right to deliver lectures on your car.

The Know-It-All who was administering my tire troubles was well groomed with a blonde hair and blue eyes pedigree that would make Hitler tee-hee in delight. As he stapled my papers together, he continued his lecture to me about my axle problems. "Do you understand what a C.V. joint is?"

I was almost afraid to answer.

"You put that baby in four-by this winter and it could fall apart. You let it go longer, it will fall apart completely and you'll be walking in the snow. Anyways, you drove this thing on flat for a while. We replaced it. The other tires weren't bald enough to replace but let me warn you that driving on bald tires are a recipe for an accident. If anyone ever plows through a stop sign and get into an accident with me, I'll be reaching for this thing (tire tread measurement tool gets pulled out of his breast pocket) and see how bald they are."

He holds it about three inches from my nose.

He's right about me driving on a flat tire though. It was a slow leak that I ignored and would fill up with air again and again. I was just glad it was fixed and I wouldn't have to endure this all over again anytime soon.

Today, I woke up to find one front tire a little flat. It has that look that it's gonna be slow leak as well. I got to the local gas station and filled it up. I left to drop off Franny at Camp Bead Bonanza (this week is all about crafting with beads). All I could do is think about how I'll soon have to visit that damn place again.

As my car flew down county highway M, we were quickly approaching a man in a day glow vest carrying something on his back while strolling up the road. As I got closer and closer, I see he has ten foot cross on his back. He sees my lone car on the road and as I pass him, he smiles and waves to me.

I gave a short wave but had to get Franny to Camp Bead Bonanza. My tire seems to be losing air again.