From “Meh” to Marvy

There’s this Nine Inch Nails song that kind of sums up my life fairly well. It’s from the With Teeth album and is adequately titled “Every Day Is Exactly the Same.”

The song itself isn’t terribly great—even less-so by NIN standards and even less-less-so as the follow-up to “Love Is Not Enough” (which is even better live)—but the opening lines are just so spot-on with how things have been for me, even pre-quarantine:

I believe I can see the future

‘Cause I repeat the same routine

It’s given laugh to me and others who find themselves in somewhat similar quandaries, especially where small children are involved,but these past few weeks have been even mire predictable.

Today started out like every other, though without my oversleeping but without going for a run. I simply decided not to. Things went downhill fast following breakfast, with N—’s leg spasms intensifying, leading to my missing my target window of rolling out of the house by 9 AM to ride for a couple of hours. To say I was irked when I finally rolled at 10 would be an understatement.

The first ten or so miles were severely lackluster but got better once I cleared the last major roadway and the house with the dog that chased me for a hundred or so yards. My legs opened up, and so did my thinking; I was in the moment and living and enjoying it immensely, even if I was having to fight a stiff headwind.

After returning home and cleaning up, it was back to “responsible adult” duties, followed by a nap, followed by more caretaker “chores” (for lack of a better word), followed by making dinner, followed by chill time with N—.

Predictable of a day as it is, there’s really not much to complain over. I got to wake up in my own house with my own family. I got to cook (and clean) for them—thrice. I got to ride my bike. I got to nap. I got to spend time with my best friend who also happens to be my wife. Oh, and I got beer, too.

Tomorrow will be somewhat similar, though I’ll mix it up and ride trails instead of roads ahead of picking up groceries via curbside. And then? A nap. Totally gonna need a nap.

Thanks for reading.

Before I Fall Asleep…

…I wanted to try writing from the iPad. It works, and is obviously far quieter than the MBP’s keyboard, but I’m just not sure. Will continue to play, to explore, to find ways of creating rather than consuming so much media. Whether or not anyone sees this at this point is irrelevant. What matter is dumping the contents of my brain rather than continuing to let thoughts sit and spoil like produce.

Thanks for reading.

Home, but Not Alone

For quite some time, I’ve been hoping, wanting to write more than the occasional microblog masquerading as a post on some social medium or other. But, alas, it has not come to pass despite my best efforts, best intentions. First, there was the deal to teach creative writing a few years back, where I naïvely imagined having time to write along with the students as they worked on their own creative pieces; with my teaching experience, how could I have been so stupid? Then, there was the purchase of the MacBook Pro on which I now type, thinking that I could write as I lay in bed, prior to falling asleep each night, but that was a big nope—present experience excluded. Then came the migration of my own site to WordPress, thinking that maybe I just needed the right medium, the right tool, so to speak, but that, too, turned out to be a bust. And then came the pandemic, but I more or less knew better, laughing along with nearly nineteen thousand other people at Brooklynite Brandy Jensen’s mid-March musing on would-be writers, myself included:

whole bunch of people about to learn that “sufficient time home alone” was not the only thing they needed to write a great novel

— Brandy Jensen (@BrandyLJensen) March 14, 2020

Only I didn’t really think that I would have the time, for I was certainly not home alone. Sure, I was now able to work from home, but there was still kid management, distance learning for my students, increased tech duties for co-workers (and now students and parents) who needed help navigating uncharted waters, to say nothing of N—’s increasing challenges with MS. But it was fun to imagine that maybe, just maybe, I could find some time here and there to hammer out a few words that could become a blog post. Yet, creeping up on four months of being at home, this is the first real writing I’m doing that goes beyond email or my endless social media refrains to either stay at home or, if you absolutely must go out, to wear a mask. The unfinished drivel I started for an edChat on Twitter I was unable to take part in doesn’t count.

The notion to start on that memoir (of sorts) of N— still burns and begs to get out, as does the tale of the murder of A—’s dad so many Christmases ago, but I doubt myself too much and just don’t know where or how or even if I should start; see: doubt.

So I started here, journaling of sorts. Just writing for the sake of writing to coax the words from my fingers across the keyboard (noisy as it is; good thing N— has her headphones in and doesn’t typically fall asleep until well past midnight) as a means of practice. Not that I expect this practice to make perfect, but the repetition of it all is a good habit to fall into, just as is the habit of regular exercise. Over the past month or so I’ve been able to resume somewhat regular workouts, running a few times a week and cycling (indoors and out) more than that. It’s good for my body, and this is good for my mind—even if it’s not good for the poor eyes who happen upon this.

So, with battery dwindling, and my need for sleep increasing, I’ll retire this bit of BS to leave you, Dear Reader, free to go read something of greater interest and/or import. Semi-pro-tip: Skip the Bolton book.

Thanks for reading.

Words to Live by

I babble a lot about The Sufferfest. I mean a lot.

But what’s not to love? When going from riding 6,000+ miles every year—with 90% of those miles outdoors to having riding restricted to either a 2-mile round-trip bike commute to/from work or indoor trainer workouts/rides, it’s essential to find a platform that offers what one needs for quality trainer time.

Sure, I’ve tried other platforms, but nothing really racks up to what SUF can offer, including a catchy culture that others have tried to replicate but just fail to measure up.

The “motto” of SUF and its imaginary nation of Sufferlandria is Pain. Misery. Agony; then, as somewhat of a subtext—and if there has been sufficient Suffering—Honor. Victory. Glory.

I know these words well. They’re stitched onto a polo shirt I occasionally wear on Biz Cas Fri (First time the boss asked about it? I told her it was best she didn’t know.), as well as emblazoned across screens at the conclusion of each workout. Heck, during a dark point early on in last year’s Bike MS, I muttered them through gritted teeth and squinted eyes to surge through 116 miles almost like it was nothing.

But it’s that first group of words that’s really been resonating with me as of late—agony in particular.

Pushing through pain is part of what makes endurance athletes “special,” and Nicholle was no exception to this. She’s pushed herself through more physical and psychological pain and misery during her days as a distance runner and triathlete than anyone else I know personally. And this isn’t even counting going through natural childbirth—twice! Yeah, she’s a tough one, but, sometimes, there’s a challenge that’s just too much. Like MS, especially as of late.

Since a nasty mastitis infection a few years ago, Nicholle slowly (then quickly) began to lose the ability to walk, let alone run. There’s been stiffness and spasticity in her legs that cause her to be unable to lift them like “normal people” do. Walking was relegated to an awkward hip swinging motion thing where physics more or less forced her legs to move in front of her; balance was handled by a hand-me-down walker. Lately, though, even that awkward walk has been reduced to bracing herself on a walker (still, albeit a new one) and force-dragging her toes across the floor. It is, in a word, agonizing. Not only for her to experience (her cries of pain and frustration over inability to move so simply) but also to witness.

To see, to hear such literal suffering goes well beyond anything I’ve put myself through on a bike or a run or anywhere, really—and I’ve had some pretty horrendous crashes. There literally is nothing else that this can be compared to. After watching this day after day for months, years, all I can think of is that it must be like her nerves are on fire. Her, my wife, who went through natural childbirth not once but twice, cannot compare the pain she experiences daily, hourly, minutely, if that’s even a word. But no matter.

The human body makes countless gestures over the course of even a minute, and most of us do not give any of them a second thought. What it takes to stand up from a seated position. To walk across a room. To raise a glass of water to our lips. To give or receive a hug without any regard for displeasure or discomfort. But MS has changed all of that.

Despite having lived with Nicholle for ten years now—MS for nine—I still find myself forgetting just how agonizing it can be for her to do so many things. Most days, she just grits her teeth and digs deep to push through. But there are days when she can dig no more, so it’s up to me to pick up the shovel and dig for her. Sure, it raises challenges for me to focus on any one thing for any extended amount of time, and sure, it gets irritating—it’s taken me over a month to write this post! But I made a promise to love and take care of her until death do us part. And it is through all of my own selfish examples of pain and misery and agony and helping her out that I achieve honor and victory and glory.

Thanks for reading.

Suf

Grunter von Agony is an absolute tool.

Sir David McQuillen, however, is the opposite; he is a saint.

For any in the know, the former requires no explanation, while the latter could stand for a bit of elaboration, especially now, so near the end of this year’s Tour of Sufferlandria. Permit me to explain.

Since 2010 or 11, I’ve been an ardent fan and supporter of the cycling training platform known as The Sufferfest. OK, for transparency’s sake, I did lapse for a couple of years and switched to a different platform, but I’ve been back on board again for about a year now, and things have really taken off. The offerings of workouts and features have exploded exponentially from the early days of workouts purchased and downloaded one at a time. Yet now, as then, the global network of those running the show prove themselves to be committed to more than just making one suffer (and eventually stronger) on a bike.

This afternoon’s stage of the Tour of Sufferlandria called for two tool-themed workouts: The Toolshed and 14 Vise Grips—though I’m certain I counted fifteen—both of which I’ve done prior to today. Unlike before today, though, I ran a video in the background, with just the app’s mini player overlayed in the foreground—again, The Sufferfest has grown phenomenally over the years. The video of choice was the HBO documentary, Marathon: The Patriot’s Day Bombing, providing the most emotional rollercoaster I could have chosen for more than just the obvious reasons.

Running the Boston Marathon is every runner’s dream—even the less-than-serious ones, such as myself; a common mantra of mine (after consistently finishing in the top ten of my age group or even overall) was, “gee, imagine if I would have trained.” Even when I did train, though, such as in 2008, when I ran my PR for a full marathon (3:22:42), I was still seven minutes and change short of having a the bare minimum qualifying time to run Boston. Still, running Boston remained a dream and one that I would toy with trying to qualify again and again. And then the bombing happened.

I was at work, eating lunch, when I saw the pop-up from some news app saying there had been two bombings at the finish line in Boston. I remember texting my wife—seven-ish weeks pregnant with what we thought would be our second child—to tell her, but she seemed uninterested; work for her was too stressful, and she was still angry with me for having agreed to coach the school swim team for one more year. So I read, and I wept. Later in the afternoon, I found myself on Facebook as many and many more of us were finding ourselves in 2013. Either by going directly to their page or having something from them pop up in my newsfeed, a communiqué from The Sufferfest stood out. I do not recall the exact wording, but, in the wake of the hours-old bombings in Boston, it struck a cacaphonous chord with me, so I made a comment or sent an email or somehow reached out to them that went something along the lines of this:

The ad and its wording of pain and suffering are ill-timed with what has recently happened in Boston. Runners, triathletes, and people worldwide are hurting right now; please take the ad (or wallpaper or whatever it was) down.

I didn’t expect much of anything to happen. After all, this was The Sufferfest, and pain, misery, and agony are literally part of their motto and marketing schtick. But within a matter of minutes, I had a reply from the owner of the entity, David McQuillen essentially apologizing and saying the offending offering had been removed. 

Amazed is about the only way I can describe how I felt, other than relieved, thinking that this one little bit from this one, somewhat obscure company would do something to relieve the pain being experienced by athletes and others who’d never laced up a pair of running shoes let alone traversed any distance farther than their car to their couch. But I was amazed, and I was impressed, and I remain impressed with how in-tune with the ebb and flow of the endurance world that Mr. McQuillen is, as well as how hard he and his team works to produce the best product for their clients. 

In the years that have lapsed since April 2013, my own health and fitness have lapsed, though they have naught to do with my own aging and more to do with the health of others for whom I love and care. These are circumstances beyond my control, so I have, to a certain degree and in the words of Thoreau and Disney songs alike, simply let go, let go. But what I haven’t let go is my drive to push and punish myself on a bike. Sure, it’s a lot more challenging to get out these days, what with two small children, my wife’s declining health due to complications from multiple sclerosis, and all, so I’ve embraced the suck that used to be riding an indoor trainer, for it’s now far-less sucky with the improvements made to both the trainers themselves and the technology that enhances the indoor riding experience. 

The Sufferfest has proven itself to be more than just a product to enhance the indoor cycling and training experience. They have fashioned themselves as a community—nay, a family—that brings those of us who wish to work ourselves into the best physical and mental versions of possible in spite (or in consideration) of all that life throws at us. I still have the half-dozen or so videos I purchased from them years back and will continue my annual subscription as long as I can manage to find some time to ride and rise above it all. 

Watching Marathon: The Patriots Day Bombing was something I’d wanted to do for a long while but something I’d put off, as I knew of the emotional toll it would take on me. While I was thousands of miles away from the explosions that shook Beantown, I felt and feel for any of those impacted by its shockwaves and shrapnel, even today, nearly seven years since. Watching the video as background during today’s Stage 8 of the Tour of Sufferlandria nearly made me fall off my bike, weeping for those in who were there. But it also reminded me of the understanding, of the generosity (for lack of a better term) of David McQuillen and the team of everyone at The Sufferfest.

Even that tool, Grunter von Agony.

To Have and to Hold

I do not have MS, but MS has me.

The above is somewhat of a twist on the usual adage uttered by those impacted by this absolute asshole of a disease.

For those unfamiliar with it, MS stands for multiple sclerosis. There are a few different types of the disease, but they all boil down to a person’s immune system attacking its central nervous system, thereby short circuiting a good chunk of what the brain tells the body to do. It’s like the frayed charging cable for your smartphone: Sometimes you can jiggle it juuust right to get the wires to make contact and charge the phone (what it’s supposed to do) but most of the time it just sits there, the juice lost somewhere in a bad connection.

And sometimes it fights back, like with my wife’s legs.

When we met, N— was a triathlete and phenom at running 10k & half marathon distances. Our first dates included a couple of long-ish runs around lakes or area running trails. The proposal came the evening after we participated in a relay marathon. And the wedding? That was in the middle of the 2009 Las Vegas Half Marathon, where we jetted up to LV the day before, ran, got hitched, and jetted back to be at our respective jobs the next day without telling a soul for two weeks. And after that, we ran and biked and swam and had almost enough adventures to last a lifetime—even after she was diagnosed with relapsing remitting MS in early 2011, roughly a year after we married.

Explaining how MS and its symptoms work can be complicated, so I use an analogy of sorts involving tides at the beach. We know that when the tide comes in, the water level is up and that all kinds of junk can wash in with it. Jellyfish, seaweed, and anything else in the ocean. When the tide goes back out, some of that junk remains on the beach, effectively destroying what was a pristine stretch of sand. Relapsing-remitting (RR) MS—probably the most common form of the disease—works in that similar fashion: Tide comes in, symptoms flare, tide goes out, everything’s more or less back to normal. But other forms of the disease—the progressive forms—are more devastating. Tide goes in, symptoms flare, water level stays put; that’s the new normal. Then the tide comes in again, symptoms flare, water stays put; that’s the new-new normal. Repeat.

That I know of, there are just two progressive: Primary and secondary. Primary is the most aggressive form of the disease with flares in symptom activity occurring several times over a relatively short period of time, like a year Secondary progressive is less frequent in flare-ups; N—’s not had a serious flare-up in probably three years. But it was a big one exacerbated by an infection she picked up twelve or so months after the birth of our second child. It literally crippled her.

Prior to that infection, N— could still walk and get about OK on her own. But once it hit and her fever spiked, she was paralyzed. As the fever subsided, the paralysis abated but left a scar. First, she could walk with a cane; then, hobble with a walker; now, she’s in a wheelchair with immense, almost constant pain in her legs. This pain is oftentimes accompanied by spasms in her legs, uncontrollable twitching that pays no mind to where she is or what she’s doing: Sitting, sleeping, and so on.

N— likens her legs to those of a Barbie doll: They’re stiff and don’t bend. But, as her husband and caretaker who transfers her in and out of bed, wheelchairs, toilet, and elsewhere, I find them more like a firehose. Sure, her legs are tough to bend and move, like a Barbie doll’s, but when a spasm hits—and they do and at always the most inconvenient or inopportune moments—her legs fight back with such strength and ferocity that any efforts at bending or adjusting are unravelled in an instant with the need to wait for the spasm to pass before starting over again.

To say this is frustrating (for me and even more-so for her) is a serious understatement.

N— is my second wife. That first marriage disintegrated in a horrifyingly dramatic fashion over several months, but it taught me a lot what it takes for a marriage to be successful: reciprocity—give and take. And, as N— and I eloped, I thought seriously about the vows a couple takes when they wed:

I take you to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death separates us.

Folks whose own marriages have fallen apart have blamed something or other on their spouse, or something that happened involving their spouse, to which they quip that “they didn’t sign up for.”

But, yeah, they did.

Those vows are kind of all-encompassing, covering SO much territory—all the bases so to speak. So when N— was diagnosed with this disease, we learned more about it (we were both somewhat familiar with the basics, both of us having done charity bike rides for MS) and how, as a couple, we could work with and for each other as our life together would be changed and challenged in ways most folk (thankfully) would never be able to comprehend.

This isn’t to say it’s been easy. Despite our respective schooling and analytic ways of looking at practically everything (we put more research into running strollers than we did for daycare for the first kid), we still make a lot of boneheaded decisions when it comes to our relationship. Each can take the other for granted or not speak in the right tone or do any number of other things that cause additional discord not already impacted by the MS factor. But we’re still committed to one another.

Last December marked ten years since we ran through the streets of Las Vegas shouting, “Bride & groom, coming through!” The original plan was to go back to Vegas to renew our vows, this time inviting our families to bear witness. Life, however, had other plans, though we still renewed our vows and invited family and friends. The ceremony was held in a side venue at our favorite coffee shop, and, while N— was able to stand for the ceremony, she did so with the support of a walker; her dad had pushed her wheelchair down some ramps built by the coffee shop owner just for the occasion and then the aisle to get her to the alter. Sure, it might not sound idyllic for most, but, for us, it was perfect, just like the first one.

A month later, there are still spasms in N—’s legs, and there are spasms in our relationship that cause us to have to stop and wait for things to settle down before we can come up with a plan, let alone move on and execute that plan.

For me, I continue to reflect on previous mistakes, as well as those vows. I cannot hold N— the same way I used to—not physically, anyway. There’s a lot I have to improve upon as a husband, a father, a human being. But I have a pretty good guide through those vows. And I’ve a pretty good anchor to what’s important in the form of N— herself.

While I don’t “have” her like we have most things in life, I’m glad I have her as a part of mine. And that I will cherish and hold onto long after death separates us.

No NaNoWriMo Fo Me

Every November, I have the intention of taking part in NaNoWriMo, and every November, things fall through. At least this year it’s only the ninth before I have occasion to pause and think, “Crap, I missed it again.” At least those intentions—along with many others for similar intents—have paved a lovely, multilane, multilevel highway.

So, while this won’t be anywhere close to a thousand words, it is at least me sitting down to write, to produce something instead of merely consuming content from the vapidity that is social media. Here goes.

The first full week of November was a naturally busy one, but it was also a productive one in that I not only got all of my classwork and grading done(!) but I also got in 3+ hours of training in: Two sessions on The Sufferfest, a mountain bike ride, and an extra run on Tuesday night. The Boy & I also got to bear witness to a bonafide steam train barreling down the tracks through town.

But MS remained its constant, aggravating self. Nicholle & I, however, have started to nail down a routine for her, though, which helps. As unpredictable as MS is, when we can know what to expect, it helps. It helps even more when those expectations are on-point, and no curve balls are thrown our way. Most days kind of go like this:

Six AM wake-up to get ankle-foot orthotics (AFOs) on Nicholle so she can get up and be somewhat mobile; it’s time consuming and painful for her, but she’s a trooper. Make breakfast for her, the kids. Make lunches for her, the kids. Get myself cleaned up, hop on the bike, and get to work. Occasionally on time, too.

In-all, it makes for an exhausting day, an exhausting week, an exhausting existence because, let’s face it: This is not “living.”

Sure, it’s not being diagnosed with an incurable neurological disease that slowly destroys every bit of normalcy, independence, and humanity from you. It’s being tethered to it. Bound to it. Devoted to it. Til death do us part.

So I soldier on as husband, as father, as caretaker, as occasional whatever else time may or—as in the case of NaNoWriMo, yet again—may not allow. I still have this little corner of the web to write whenever time permits, no matter the month.

As always, thanks for reading.

@ Capacity

The other day, I forced myself to make time to go outside and play. It was ahead of some rain, and Earth Burger was debuting some new menu items, so it seemed like the perfect excuse/opportunity to go ride at Mac. And it was for a little bit, but then it hit me: I was operating at maximum capacity.

Mountain biking (or anything in life, really) requires split-second decision making. When I first took up the sport, I was unable to really get into or enjoy it because I was without insurance; I couldn’t afford to get hurt. Once my insurance kicked in, though, mountain biking became fun. Really, really fun. Or for a while, anyway.

Fast-forward to now. I’m back to no longer being able to afford to hurt myself (I mean, I have insurance, but the insurance I have is crummy, at best.) but it’s more the myriad other things on my plate: Mortgage. Small children. Wife. Wife (same one) with debilitating neurological disease. Stresses of job. Stresses of serving as sole caretaker & caregiver for aforementioned kids & wife. All of these things play continuously in the back (and often forefront) of my mind, inhibiting my ability to oftentimes be present for much of anything. And when that something is tearing or even tooling around a trail, it’s tough to do. It’s near-impossible to be in the moment when the mind is constantly reassessing prior moments to find means of improvement while also planning out the moments ahead: Dinner or whatever meal is next up. Clean-up. Kids’ hygiene. Wife’s hygiene. Own hygiene? Work obligations. Tending to the house. The car. The dog.

Repeat.

I’m regularly told to take care of myself, too. And I try, I really do. But finding moments to be in the moment, on or off the bike has become increasingly rare, and the only way to find that time is to sacrifice something else, and it’s just not something I can do in good conscious. So I’m trying to find ways to adapt.

For most mountain biking, there’s a great set of trails at a park some 20 miles or so from home at McAllister Park in San Antonio. On a good day, I can make it from the garage to the trailhead in just over 20 minutes or so. Yet, lately, I’ve been exploring some areas in a creek bed just over a mile from home. I can (and do) ride there. It’s not as extensive of a trail network as what’s offered at Mac (and nothing like Flat Rock Creek, a private ranch reserved for off-road adventures a good chunk of the year, but that’s an even rarer thing, given its sixty-something miles one-way trek), but the creek bed is close to home, and I can get in a good ride with some fun, semi-technical stuff, as well as lots of climbing—in about the same time it would take me just to drive to the park and back. And, to boot, through riding down there I’ve come to meet a couple more riders just in my neighborhood.

My brain, much like my plate, is very full. While it does inhibit me from being even a quarter as skilled as many of my peers, I understand it is not my defining factor. It’s but one tooth in a cog, and sometimes, one just needs to simply shift gears to go faster, do better, be better.

Thanks for reading.

Better than Batman

When I was at university, I would schedule my classes to allow for long breaks in between in order to have time to do homework, read ahead, or (more times than not) go for bike ride. UTSA’s 1604 campus was on the edge of some of the best riding outside of the Texas Hill Country, and, at the time, the development now virtually decimating the area had yet to commence.

My time on the bike was not all fun and play. Sure, it was that, but I’d find I did some of my best thinking while just riding along. One time that stands out was following a literature class, where I mulled over the writing prompt in my head, and, by the time I made it back to campus and in the rec center for a shower, had the outline of a first draft completed in my head.

Fast forward fifteen years, and I’m still doing the same thing: Thinking (sometimes too much) while on my bike. I’m not one to wear earbuds outside (too much traffic to listen for) and inside…well, the music seldom does much to quell what comes to mind. Such was the case a week or so ago while working through a Sufferfest workout titled “Batman Intervals.”

Sometime around the fourth or fifth round, I got to thinking about the sundry iterations of Batman filmgoers have been subjected to over the years, most recently Ben Affleck’s take. While Affleck is purported to have been the bomb in Phantoms, yo, I have a hard time seeing him as a superhero the likes of Batman—or Daredevil, but we’ll not go knocking on that door tonight. Bruce Wayne, sure, but the Dark Knight?

Still, it was an exchange of “dialogue” in 2017’s Justice League between Affleck’s Batman and Ezra Miller’s The Flash regarding superpowers, and…

…that got me to thinking how Batman can always retreat into his money, much in the same way the Tom Buchanans could, would: They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made*.

Bruce Wayne is under no obligation to be Batman. It’s what rich people can do if they get bored with being rich or making their own space companies or raising polo ponies or whatever it is that rich people genuinely do these days. Batman is, for all intents and purposes, a volunteer—an overzealous Citizen On Patrol. If he’s not feeling terribly super on any given day (er, night) he can just not show up. No one holds him accountable for what he does or doesn’t do.

And that’s where I’m better than Batman.

I don’t have his gadgets or cape & cowl—and certainly not his trust fund—but I do have the accountability to be my best self all the time for the people who genuinely need and depend on me. And if you, too, are a caregiver for a spouse, a child, another family member, or even a friend, you, too, are better than Batman.

There is more to say, but it’s late, and it’s been a tough day saving the world in some form or fashion. And I get to do it all over again tomorrow.

Thanks for reading.

* – OK, sure, Wayne Industries set up the pay account for the guy who got his leg crushed at the beginning of Batman v. Superman (or ending of what Superman movie that was where Superman uncharacteristically kills Zod), but that’s likely the exception not the rule—and turned out to be little more than a plot device.

My First Blog Post

What Was Old
Is New Again

Years ago—some ten or more—I had the notion to start up a blog with the intent of chronicling my journey as a triathlete because who wouldn’t want to read that?

More to the point, who would want to read that?

So, since Blogger went by the wayside of a non-secure site, I’ve moved my site and my ramblings over here to WordPress. Not that the content will be that much better than what it was over yonder, just know there’s likely to be a lot less triathlon-related banter and a lot more of me just bearing my soul, one keystroke at a time.

More will come in the days to come, but now I must sleep. I hope you understand, and I hope you’ll come back, too.

Regardless, thanks for reading.