A month ago I started volunteering at a nearby hospital. There was no particular thought behind choosing a hospital -- I'm not in the medical field and I don't plan to be. I had been looking for a volunteer opportunity, but it was just happenstance that I noticed the "volunteer" link on the hospital's website while trying to get a physician referral.
Since I really didn't have any expectations of what I was getting myself into, I can't really say that it is or isn't what I expected. What I can say though is that it's become one of the highlights of my week. Why is working for free so great? There are a few reasons.
1) Four hours of peace. When I'm at home, if I'm not at the computer then my iPhone is in my hand. When I'm out, if my iPhone isn't in my hand, it's close at hand. There are books to be read, TV shows to be followed, Tweets to be cleverly responded to, movies to be watched, statuses to be updated, articles to be written, phone calls to be made, laundry to be done, meals to be cooked, dogs to be walked (well, one dog at least), und so weiter. When I get to the hospital, I turn off my iPhone, lock it in a locker, and spend four hours where the only computer that I have access to has no internet access. Bliss.
2) The home-office antidote. There are advantages to working at home and being your own boss. Being alone all day every day isn't one of them. In the course of four hours at the hospital I interact with other volunteers, patients, nurses, lab techs, and doctors (of course, the interaction with doctors is limited to them taking only cursory notice of me when we pass in the hallways). I'm hardly an extrovert, but this weekly booster shot of social interaction is much needed.
3) In a small way, not so free. Every week, each volunteer gets five dollars to spend at the hospital cafeteria. While that may sound chintzy, the prices are pretty reasonable to start with and we get the 20% employee discount. This means that I can get a full meal and a cup of coffee during a break in my shift. It's not the prix fix at Joel Robuchon, but a BBQ pork sandwich, apple, chocolate milk, and coffee that I don't have to make or pay for works plenty well for me.
4) Forgetting to be smart. When engaged in my day job, my brain is generally pushing into the red zone trying to dig for interesting topics to write about, find stocks to bring to investors' attention, discuss tried and true investment wisdom in new and interesting ways, and weave my way through heaps of economic data. When I'm at the hospital, nobody appears to think that I am capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time -- not only am I a volunteer, but I'm also about 30 years the junior of most of the other volunteers. I'm A-OK with being treated like that. Heck, sometimes I think I get a little too into the role -- today I got lost circling around a floor of the hospital and had to be pointed back to the elevator.
5) Helping. One of my main activities at the hospital is discharging patients. I bring a wheelchair to their room, help them in, wheel them out, and make sure they are safely on their way home. The returns on that are pretty straight-forward since the patients are typically very grateful and extremely happy to be going home. Less straight-forward is the work we do running samples to the lab, transporting equipment, and the like, however, when you think about it, with us doing that gofer work, the nurses are freed up to devote more time to patient care. And it's easy to feel pretty good about that too.
6) A sick person, an old person, and a dead person. It was coming across those three sights that set Siddhartha the prince on the path to becoming the Buddha. Or so the story goes. At my age, running 50+ miles per week, and doing pretty much whatever else I please, it's easy to forget that it doesn't last. There's no benefit in being morbid about it all, but as little as four hours per week in a hospital can offer a pretty heft dose of perspective. Invincible? Nah, just still very young and very lucky.
I guess it's cliche to say that you get back more than you give when you volunteer, but most cliches end up with that dubious title for a reason. I'm a big fan of getting paid for my work in monetary form, and hope to get paid even more for it in the future. But I'm also becoming a pretty big fan of supplementing my cash-producing work with some work that pays in other ways.
--
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Charleston: 1, Me: 0
"You can't always get what you want."
That was pretty much the theme of my day at Mount Charleston.
As I pointed out in the prelude, I prepared myself for a variety of possible foreseeable problems. Unfortunately, I prepared myself for the wrong problems. I was unprepared, for instance, for the trailhead to be closed. I was likewise unprepared for snow. I also can't exactly say that I was ready for massive collapsed trees blocking the trail. Lucky for me, I got them all, which made myrun excursion debacle interesting, to say the least.
In one of the trail descriptions, I read: "The trail is well-maintained and virtually impossible to lose." Maybe I should have read the whole thing: "The trail is well-maintained and virtually impossible to lose except in snow." (emphasis mine). And boy was there snow...
But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, since that description was for the "South Loop" trail. The South Loop trail happened to be closed. Instead, I was guided to the "Echo Loop" trial, which was in such dire condition (snow, felled trees, etc) that I have to imagine that the Devil himself was standing at the South Loop trailhead smiting people with a vengeance. And, for that reason, I guess I can't be mad that the South Loop trail was closed.
The short version of what could be a very long story is that it was impossible to keep track of the trail thanks to the ski-resort-like conditions. Interestingly, as advertised, Echo Loop does come back around to meet South Loop -- at the closed South Loop trailhead. So after 2.5 hours of jogging up and down avalanche chutes, getting stuck in three-foot-deep snowdrifts, and tripping over innumerable half-snow-covered fallen trees, I finally found myself... back where I started.
As nothing is ever a complete loss, there were plenty of takeaways from this adventure.
And besides the hard-learned lessons there were definitely some bright spots. Charleston Peak or not, the views were pretty fantastic. Though my total mileage was just nine miles, my excursions up and down the avalanche chutes left me with a total ascent of just under 3,900' -- which is nearly the climb I would have had if I actually hit the peak. And, thankfully, I was right about one thing from the prelude: Mount Charleston lodge does, in fact, have some really kickin' ribs.
Because this is already really long, I'll spare the clever life-lesson tie-in (not getting what you want, taking untraveled trails, and so on). However, I started with part of a line from The Stones. I'd hope pretty much everyone could finish that line ("But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.").
Pretty straight forward: You don't get exactly what you want (or what you think you want), but you get what you need. In my case, I wanted to run to the top of Charleston Peak. Is a 2.5 hour meandering voyage in sopping shoes through snow and mud what I needed? Eh, I don't think so. But sometimes, what you need just may be to simply not get what you want.
Now don't you go getting too comfortable Charleston. You won this time, but I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back.
--
That was pretty much the theme of my day at Mount Charleston.
As I pointed out in the prelude, I prepared myself for a variety of possible foreseeable problems. Unfortunately, I prepared myself for the wrong problems. I was unprepared, for instance, for the trailhead to be closed. I was likewise unprepared for snow. I also can't exactly say that I was ready for massive collapsed trees blocking the trail. Lucky for me, I got them all, which made my
In one of the trail descriptions, I read: "The trail is well-maintained and virtually impossible to lose." Maybe I should have read the whole thing: "The trail is well-maintained and virtually impossible to lose except in snow." (emphasis mine). And boy was there snow...But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, since that description was for the "South Loop" trail. The South Loop trail happened to be closed. Instead, I was guided to the "Echo Loop" trial, which was in such dire condition (snow, felled trees, etc) that I have to imagine that the Devil himself was standing at the South Loop trailhead smiting people with a vengeance. And, for that reason, I guess I can't be mad that the South Loop trail was closed.
The short version of what could be a very long story is that it was impossible to keep track of the trail thanks to the ski-resort-like conditions. Interestingly, as advertised, Echo Loop does come back around to meet South Loop -- at the closed South Loop trailhead. So after 2.5 hours of jogging up and down avalanche chutes, getting stuck in three-foot-deep snowdrifts, and tripping over innumerable half-snow-covered fallen trees, I finally found myself... back where I started.
As nothing is ever a complete loss, there were plenty of takeaways from this adventure.
- Expect the unexpected. Always.
- Snow may be harder to run in than sand.
- White men really can't jump (I've got a golf-ball-sized knot on my shin from trying to leap a dead tree to prove it).
- Duct tape does wonders for blisters (didn't feel a thing the entire run).
- Call ahead for trail conditions.
Because this is already really long, I'll spare the clever life-lesson tie-in (not getting what you want, taking untraveled trails, and so on). However, I started with part of a line from The Stones. I'd hope pretty much everyone could finish that line ("But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.").
Pretty straight forward: You don't get exactly what you want (or what you think you want), but you get what you need. In my case, I wanted to run to the top of Charleston Peak. Is a 2.5 hour meandering voyage in sopping shoes through snow and mud what I needed? Eh, I don't think so. But sometimes, what you need just may be to simply not get what you want.
Now don't you go getting too comfortable Charleston. You won this time, but I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back.
--
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Mount Charleston Prelude
Tomorrow morning I'm dragging myself out of bed bright and early to drive an hour northwest of the city to Mount Charleston, home of, well, Mount Charleston.
My plan is to run to Charleston Peak, the highest peak in the Spring Mountains at 11,918'. The route is 8.3 miles in each direction and starts at 7,600'. One website describes the trail as such:
And that refers to hiking the trail.
In addition, I'll be tacking on another 3.4 miles somehow to hit the 20 miles that I have on my training schedule.
I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit nervous. Partly because I'm going up there alone (though there should be plenty of hikers up there). Partly because of the elevation. Partly because of the elevation gain. Partly because it's 20 miles. Partly because I have a general fear of the unknown. And if running up a mountain is anything for me, it's an unknown.
But I guess there's little gained from dwelling on all of that.
Packing for the excursion I've set myself up with:
Since I'm planning to start training for an ultramarathon when I'm done with the upcoming marathon, I figure this will give me a pretty good taste of just how badly I'm likely to get my ass whooped.
As the wise Chaka Khan said: "Through the fire, to the limit, to the wall ... I'd gladly risk it all." Not that that makes any sense since I have no intention of "risking it all." But you get the point.
--
My plan is to run to Charleston Peak, the highest peak in the Spring Mountains at 11,918'. The route is 8.3 miles in each direction and starts at 7,600'. One website describes the trail as such:
The trail is 8.3 miles one-way, with an elevation gain of about 4300 feet -- from 7600' to 11,918'. Although the trail itself is excellent, the elevation gain, length and high altitude make it very challenging for most mortals.
And that refers to hiking the trail.
In addition, I'll be tacking on another 3.4 miles somehow to hit the 20 miles that I have on my training schedule.
I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit nervous. Partly because I'm going up there alone (though there should be plenty of hikers up there). Partly because of the elevation. Partly because of the elevation gain. Partly because it's 20 miles. Partly because I have a general fear of the unknown. And if running up a mountain is anything for me, it's an unknown.
But I guess there's little gained from dwelling on all of that.
Packing for the excursion I've set myself up with:
- Rain gear consisting of one large trash bag and a ziplock for my phone (20% chance of thundershowers)
- Cool-weather gear (it's generally 20-30 degrees cooler in Charleston than Las Vegas)
- Blister kit consisting of duct tape wrapped around a half Bic pen, Nuskin, and antiseptic wipes (I didn't tie my shoes tight enough the other day and ended up with a blister... boo-hoo)
- Eats: Banana, Cliff Bar, Stinger energy gel, Shot Bloks, Sport Beans, and Sharkies (looking to take in ~300 calories per hour)
- And, most importantly: Wallet with credit card (the Mount Charleston Lodge makes a mean rack of ribs...)
Since I'm planning to start training for an ultramarathon when I'm done with the upcoming marathon, I figure this will give me a pretty good taste of just how badly I'm likely to get my ass whooped.
As the wise Chaka Khan said: "Through the fire, to the limit, to the wall ... I'd gladly risk it all." Not that that makes any sense since I have no intention of "risking it all." But you get the point.
--
When 12 Miles Is No Big Deal
Not all that long ago, I was training for half marathons and swore that I wouldn't run anything longer. The only time I hit twelve miles was during the race, and at that point I knew that there was only another 1.1 mile left to go.
Now, I'm training for my first marathon and it's a different story. Yesterday was Friday -- just a "normal" day on the training schedule, not a long run or anything like that -- and the schedule called for 12 miles. The day before was a tempo run that totaled 11 miles. Sunday I'm supposed to run 20 miles.
Throwing on my running gear there was none of the anxiety or butterflies that I usually get when I'm about to go on a challenging run. Why? Because 12 miles is no big deal.
When did this happen? How did this happen?
It's simple: It's all relative. When the goal was a 13.1 mile race, an eight-mile run was a challenge. When the goal is a 26.2 mile race, 12 miles is no big deal. I can only assume that when I'm training for a 50-mile ultramarathon that 20 miles will seem a lot easier.
Of course, as Einstein would be quick to point out, relativity is hardly confined to running.
Or ... are all of those distinctions meaningless?
I think most people would hate the idea of doing away with these relative concepts. Without those, you're no longer bigger, stronger, faster, richer, smarter, nor are you better looking, more impressively employed, or even (gasp!) wiser. You're just you. And what the hell is that?
But sticking with relative concepts is no picnic either. As long as we keep them around, then most goals become moving targets that you're unlikely to ever hit. Want to be wealthy? Even if you put a specific number on it -- "I want to have $1 million" -- it's very likely that once you reach that number you'll find yourself looking around at the folks with $3 million, $5 million, or $10 million and decide that you feel like a pauper with $1 million.
That's far from hypothetical. The average respondent in a recent Fidelity Investments poll had $3.5 million in investable assets and an annual household income of $379,000, yet 42% of them said they don't feel wealthy. And when would they feel wealthy? When they have $7.5 million in investable assets -- or so they say.
Of course, the same could be said for a good job, a better body, a perfect family, or any of the myriad other things that we pride ourselves on. It's classic hedonic treadmill.
Like I said at the beginning of all of this, running 12 miles is no big deal. But is it because I'm training for a longer race? Perhaps. Or maybe it's because running 12 miles is just about maintaining foot turnover over the course of 63,360 feet. Running 12 miles is simple -- everything else is damn complicated.
--
Now, I'm training for my first marathon and it's a different story. Yesterday was Friday -- just a "normal" day on the training schedule, not a long run or anything like that -- and the schedule called for 12 miles. The day before was a tempo run that totaled 11 miles. Sunday I'm supposed to run 20 miles.
Throwing on my running gear there was none of the anxiety or butterflies that I usually get when I'm about to go on a challenging run. Why? Because 12 miles is no big deal.
When did this happen? How did this happen?
It's simple: It's all relative. When the goal was a 13.1 mile race, an eight-mile run was a challenge. When the goal is a 26.2 mile race, 12 miles is no big deal. I can only assume that when I'm training for a 50-mile ultramarathon that 20 miles will seem a lot easier.
Of course, as Einstein would be quick to point out, relativity is hardly confined to running.
- A 5'8" man like myself would be a giant among the pygmies, but the New York Knicks wouldn't give me a second look (that's if they gave me a first).
- I doubt my sister could bench press 145 pounds a single time. I can do 20 reps with no problem. Eight-time Mr. Olympian Ronnie Coleman can put up 495 pounds for reps. An attempt at that would likely end my life in a horrible chest-crushing exhibition. (note: always use a spotter, kids)
- With $100 in your bank account, an $80 dinner out is a serious splurge. With $10 billion to your name, buying a few restaurants might be something you'd do on a drunken dare.
- In a field of grass and weeds, a dandelion can look very pretty. Next to a dozen roses, a dandelion looks pretty pathetic. (note to self: A dandelion bouquet probably won't cut it on Valentine's Day)
Or ... are all of those distinctions meaningless?
I think most people would hate the idea of doing away with these relative concepts. Without those, you're no longer bigger, stronger, faster, richer, smarter, nor are you better looking, more impressively employed, or even (gasp!) wiser. You're just you. And what the hell is that?
But sticking with relative concepts is no picnic either. As long as we keep them around, then most goals become moving targets that you're unlikely to ever hit. Want to be wealthy? Even if you put a specific number on it -- "I want to have $1 million" -- it's very likely that once you reach that number you'll find yourself looking around at the folks with $3 million, $5 million, or $10 million and decide that you feel like a pauper with $1 million.
That's far from hypothetical. The average respondent in a recent Fidelity Investments poll had $3.5 million in investable assets and an annual household income of $379,000, yet 42% of them said they don't feel wealthy. And when would they feel wealthy? When they have $7.5 million in investable assets -- or so they say.
Of course, the same could be said for a good job, a better body, a perfect family, or any of the myriad other things that we pride ourselves on. It's classic hedonic treadmill.
Like I said at the beginning of all of this, running 12 miles is no big deal. But is it because I'm training for a longer race? Perhaps. Or maybe it's because running 12 miles is just about maintaining foot turnover over the course of 63,360 feet. Running 12 miles is simple -- everything else is damn complicated.
--
Friday, April 22, 2011
Oranges
I really like oranges. Every week, when I go to Fresh & Easy to do my grocery shopping I pick up a bag of five or six oranges. Every week, that is, until last week.
Last week I found myself in Costco, in front of a 13-pound box of oranges. "This is fantastic," I thought, "if I buy this box of oranges then I won't have to worry about running out of oranges near the end of the week. Heck, I may not even have to buy any oranges for a couple weeks. If I buy this, I'll be pretty damn set as far as oranges go."
So I bought the 13-pound box of oranges.
But a 13-pound box of oranges isn't all fun and games. First, there appears to be less quality control with the higher quantity, meaning that I'm finding myself with more oranges that just aren't all that tasty. Worse, oranges are perishable. This means that I can either eat oranges at my usual pace and watch the oranges at the bottom of my overfilled fruit bowl (not to mention the ones still in the original box) turn yellow and mushy, or I can start making two oranges a feature of every meal. If there's a disease that's the polar opposite of scurvy, the latter tact might land me with a nasty case.
As I worked my way through a very mediocre orange at lunch today, I couldn't help but think about the motivation for buying a 13-pound box of oranges. Is it any different than the motivation that seems to drive so many of us today? Stacking up bank accounts and retirement accounts, new cars, big homes, vacation homes, and, of course, a bigger, flatter, sharper, brighter, way-more-kick-ass TV.
We may not all be afraid of running out of oranges, but most of us seem dead set on trying to make sure we have an overabundance of everything else. Lost in the shuffle is the quality of the work we do to get the money to enable it all, the quality of the things that we are buying in 13-pound boxes, and the overall quality of our lives. Surely, the thought process goes, quality of life will undoubtedly follow if only I have enough of [insert just about anything here]. How has that been working out?
Ah, but don't waste your time worrying about any of that. After all, this is just a story about a 13-pound box of oranges.
--
Last week I found myself in Costco, in front of a 13-pound box of oranges. "This is fantastic," I thought, "if I buy this box of oranges then I won't have to worry about running out of oranges near the end of the week. Heck, I may not even have to buy any oranges for a couple weeks. If I buy this, I'll be pretty damn set as far as oranges go."
So I bought the 13-pound box of oranges.
But a 13-pound box of oranges isn't all fun and games. First, there appears to be less quality control with the higher quantity, meaning that I'm finding myself with more oranges that just aren't all that tasty. Worse, oranges are perishable. This means that I can either eat oranges at my usual pace and watch the oranges at the bottom of my overfilled fruit bowl (not to mention the ones still in the original box) turn yellow and mushy, or I can start making two oranges a feature of every meal. If there's a disease that's the polar opposite of scurvy, the latter tact might land me with a nasty case.
As I worked my way through a very mediocre orange at lunch today, I couldn't help but think about the motivation for buying a 13-pound box of oranges. Is it any different than the motivation that seems to drive so many of us today? Stacking up bank accounts and retirement accounts, new cars, big homes, vacation homes, and, of course, a bigger, flatter, sharper, brighter, way-more-kick-ass TV.
We may not all be afraid of running out of oranges, but most of us seem dead set on trying to make sure we have an overabundance of everything else. Lost in the shuffle is the quality of the work we do to get the money to enable it all, the quality of the things that we are buying in 13-pound boxes, and the overall quality of our lives. Surely, the thought process goes, quality of life will undoubtedly follow if only I have enough of [insert just about anything here]. How has that been working out?
Ah, but don't waste your time worrying about any of that. After all, this is just a story about a 13-pound box of oranges.
--
Tempos
I hate tempo runs. A tempo run is part hellish punishment and ... well, it's mostly just hellish punishment.
Practically, a tempo run is a few miles at an easy pace and a bunch of miles at an uncomfortably fast pace. Today that meant four miles at an easy pace (8:00 / mile) and seven miles at a 6:38 pace.
I hate tempo runs. I really like running, but I don't like tempo runs. The reason is deceptively simple: They're really hard. They're that way because they're designed to be that way. The idea is that you push yourself at a level above where you're targeting for your race (my target pace is 7:00 / mile), get your body to adapt to a higher level of stress, and bingo-bango, you're ready to hit your pace target and not keel over midway through the race.
There's only one slight problem. Between the figuring out that you need to run tempos and the fully-adapted, ready-to-run-at-target-pace body, you actually have to run the tempos. And I hate tempo runs.
Of course with every yin comes a yang, with every dentist visit comes the sugar-free lollipop, and with my dread of tempos come the two of the deep-down reasons I really love to run.
I organized my run today into three sections: One mile at easy pace, the seven tempo miles, and then another three at easy pace. During the entire first mile, my mind was whirring nonstop with "You can't do this, there's no way you can do this, you're going to fall of the treadmill and look like a moron." During the first tempo mile my mind kept going, "You're about to fly off the back of this treadmill and get a face-full of floor." During the second mile, "You're exhausted already, how do you expect to finish this?"
Then, some time around mile 4.5 -- the halfway point of the tempo portion of the playbill -- it started changing. First it was, "Wow, you made it to the halfway point." At mile five it was, "You're can actually do this!" And then, imperceptibly, sometime around mile six, it all disappeared. All was quiet. And then, suddenly, it was mile eight and I had finished the tempo section of the run.
And those two reasons I love to run?
1) It's an arena to push myself beyond what I think I'm capable of and prove over and over again that I really have no idea what I'm capable of; and
2) It's a way to shut down all of the goddamn voices.
But you know what? I still hate tempo runs.
--
Practically, a tempo run is a few miles at an easy pace and a bunch of miles at an uncomfortably fast pace. Today that meant four miles at an easy pace (8:00 / mile) and seven miles at a 6:38 pace.
I hate tempo runs. I really like running, but I don't like tempo runs. The reason is deceptively simple: They're really hard. They're that way because they're designed to be that way. The idea is that you push yourself at a level above where you're targeting for your race (my target pace is 7:00 / mile), get your body to adapt to a higher level of stress, and bingo-bango, you're ready to hit your pace target and not keel over midway through the race.
There's only one slight problem. Between the figuring out that you need to run tempos and the fully-adapted, ready-to-run-at-target-pace body, you actually have to run the tempos. And I hate tempo runs.
Of course with every yin comes a yang, with every dentist visit comes the sugar-free lollipop, and with my dread of tempos come the two of the deep-down reasons I really love to run.
I organized my run today into three sections: One mile at easy pace, the seven tempo miles, and then another three at easy pace. During the entire first mile, my mind was whirring nonstop with "You can't do this, there's no way you can do this, you're going to fall of the treadmill and look like a moron." During the first tempo mile my mind kept going, "You're about to fly off the back of this treadmill and get a face-full of floor." During the second mile, "You're exhausted already, how do you expect to finish this?"
Then, some time around mile 4.5 -- the halfway point of the tempo portion of the playbill -- it started changing. First it was, "Wow, you made it to the halfway point." At mile five it was, "You're can actually do this!" And then, imperceptibly, sometime around mile six, it all disappeared. All was quiet. And then, suddenly, it was mile eight and I had finished the tempo section of the run.
And those two reasons I love to run?
1) It's an arena to push myself beyond what I think I'm capable of and prove over and over again that I really have no idea what I'm capable of; and
2) It's a way to shut down all of the goddamn voices.
But you know what? I still hate tempo runs.
--
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