#357: Recovery and Ramping Up the Miles

There's something strange about the idea of running to recover from a run. They tell me it's smart to get moving again. Breaks up the lactic acid or something. So, I gave it a shot. Here's today's journal entry.

60 degrees. 3.58 mi/40:37 7:08 AM. Adidas. No Walk Breaks. Splits: 11:43, 11:28, 11:07. Recovery run. Slight soreness inside right ilium during warm up. Worked its way out. Feels fine now.

The hip bone's connected to the...

Just showing off with the ilium thing. I don't remember much from Mr. McGregor's high school biology class, so when one of those anatomy names floats up out of the fog between my ears, I like to throw it in. Sort of like saying gastrocnemius instead of calf. These little indulgences help me feel like I'm still mentally functional. What I meant was that I had a little soreness on the inside of my right hip bone, but since hip bones are a relatively new phenomenon on my body, I think I should be able to call them whatever I want. No matter how much my spell checker complains about it.

Not actually Pennsy

This morning's run was not pastoral like Saturday's long one, but it is lovely on the streets Rat 7:00 in the morning, especially when the big clock in front of the bank says it's 60 degrees. I decided to go slow today, just to get my heart pumping and to keep up the momentum from the weekend. At the last minute I took off my watch, the one that beeps my time intervals. I would take my breaks when I felt like it, or maybe not at all. I had a short warm up, then started jogging at the corner where a crossing guard, a retired-looking fellow with orange gloves and vest was placing cones at the cross walks, preparing for the kids to arrive at our neighborhood elementary school. I wished him a good morning, and he smiled and waved a day-glo colored hand at me. It reminded me that I've got to get one of those reflective vest thingees before the mornings get much darker. Next paycheck. After a couple of blocks at an easy pace, I decided to go without walk breaks, just to see if I could maintain a tempo. I felt so good after two miles that I trotted through another mile and a half. Easy pace, quiet breath. No pressing. No pushing. Just gently gliding along. Smooth up the hills, coast down the other side. When I finished, the crossing guard was just picking up his cones and finishing his work for the morning.

"Get 'em all in safe and sound?" I called from across the street.

"Oh, yeah!" he answered with a smile. Something tells me we're going to be seeing a lot of each other.

Can't wait to wear this tee-shirt

I'm going to try increasing my mileage by switching to an every-other day schedule. The cooler mornings make running feel even better, and they also remind me that October and the Iron Horse Half-marathon are around the corner. My only goals are to finish, and to maintain that minimum 14:00/mile pace so I don't wash out. I really don't think that's going to be a problem as long as I keep training and stay healthy.

I have some chores to do around the house this morning, then it's off to the gym for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA in the afternoon. Melissa tried to kill us with a brutal spinning class on Wednesday. There's no telling what evil her imagination has conjured up since then. I have learned that crying for mercy is useless. She doesn't even respond to guilt: "Don't you know we are all battling a fatal illness?" The best thing to do is just shut up, listen to the music, and keep your feet moving. Just like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer... it feels so good when you stop.

Peace,
Pennsy

#356: A Running Dream Come True

I have had a recurring dream about running. It's early morning. the mist is just burning off the Bluegrass. In my ears are the sounds of birds and cicadas. My feet pat the blacktop road as I glide between the trees and the plank fences that line the horse farms. My breath comes steady and easy as the sun warms my face. I've had that dream quite a few times. I had it while I was sick. I had it when I was walking the track over the basketball court at the gym. I had it the day I ran my first mile after treatment. I had it after I ran my first 10K. And this morning, I lived it.

I met with four other runners at 7:30 in the parking lot of a church just east of town. The sun was coming up behind the corn field that grows behind the church. We had all met one another on Twitter and Facebook, but I had never seen any of them before. We chatted comfortably as we compared water-bottles and I silently noted that they were all young enough to be my children. I realized that I wasn't going to be running with this group. I was going to be running behind them.The parking lot was full of empty cars. There were a lot of runners already out on the road.

Before long, runners started coming up the drive. They had started about an hour before. Some even earlier. The toughest of them had already run 10 miles. They were going to lead us out for another 10. What amazing, generous people. They had left water and sports drinks in ice filled buckets along the route, and there was a large cooler there in the parking lot. The early morning runners came in, changed their shirts, exchanged greetings and introductions, and we were on our way. How nice was the run?



My God, but I love my Kentucky. It wasn't long before the strong runners pulled away over the next hill and I trotted along for a short while with two of my fellow newbies. After about a mile, I was feeling pretty good, so I pulled ahead and ran alone. Such breathtaking country. I saw thoroughbreds waking up in the pastures. A heron viewed his domain from atop a fence post that stood inexplicably alone in the middle of a bluegrass field. Birds called to me from the trees and bugs sang in the grass as I trotted past. I thanked God for the chance to run this road. For letting me live long enough to run it. For letting me live in a place where such a place was a fifteen minute drive from my bed. Every runner should have a chance to have a run like this.

One of my fellow runners blogged about the trip from her perspective. Krissie and Erin stopped to smell the clover more than I did, but they still managed to catch and pass me in the last mile. I had managed my strength badly, and by 8.3 miles, I was spent. I think I walked more than I ran those last two miles, but I was running at the end, about 20 seconds behind the two ladies I had imagined as my daughters two hours ago. I was irrationally proud of their strong finish. I've always lived with one foot in my fantasy world anyway. Might as well gloat about my imaginary kids.

One of the experienced runners, Eric recognized me from my internet posts. "You're a cancer survivor, right?" "That's right," I answered. "That's pretty cool." "It sure is." This morning, it is especially cool.

I came home exhausted. Mrs P was sitting in the big chair in the den, enjoying the peace and quiet. I went out to the porch to put my soaking clothes on the drying rack. When I pulled my socks off, I saw two big blisters on the fourth toe on each foot. The blisters were about the size of the end of my pinky finger, near the top, outside surface of the toe, just past the end of the little piggy that cries "wee, wee, wee!" They hadn't broken and didn't hurt at all. I didn't know they were there till I saw them. I will take good care of them, and hope a pair of funny little callouses form. I like the kind of blister that doesn't hurt.

Yes, I made some mistakes this morning. I started out too fast. I wanted to run off on my own, and missed a chance to pet a horse's nose. I pushed too hard on the climbs and burned out before I could complete the run. But I started. And I finished. And in between, I traveled through a dream. Oh, thank God for such a place, such a day, such a life.

Peace,
Pennsy

#355: Under the Weights, In the Water, and On the Boards

For most of my life, "muscle confusion" meant muscles asking, "hey, why are we moving all of a sudden?" Now, that I'm running, my muscles are more likely to ask, "hey, are you just going to sit there typing all day?"

Muscle confusion is a popular trend in training based on the principle that your body adapts very quickly to stress. If you do the same exercise over and over, your body learns to perform it more efficiently, and it has less and less of an effect on your growth. Eventually, you hit the dreaded "plateau" where you're doing everything right - eating clean, running long, sleeping deep, lifting heavy - but you don't lose weight, you don't get any faster, and you can't pull that new, heavier dead lift. You're stuck. How to get unstuck? Try cross training.

That's what they tell me, anyway.

Elliptical trainer

Since starting LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, I've been doing all kinds of cool stuff. The trainers have me doing cardio on the elliptical machine. That's cool, because it works my legs in a very different way than running does, and gives me a workout without interfering with the recovery day between runs that is so important to my old joints. I liked the machines at my first gym, Promatx, because they seemed to have a nice long stride that fit my legs. Many of the other machines I've tried seem to have shorter steps that make it a little harder for me to keep my balance. It took me a while to find a setting that let me work the foot pads without bumping up and down, but I think I've finally got it down. The elliptical is a funny machine. It's easy to fake it... lots of people watch TV or even read while they're working out. On the other hand, if you set an aggressive goal like maintaining a high pace or heart rate, you can really break a good sweat on the thing without banging your knees and hips. Sure, I'd rather  be running, but working those big muscles in the legs and butt, as well as the big one inside your chest, can only help when it's time to hit the road again.

Chest Press machine

I've never been a big fan of the weight machines, I find them restrictive and a little boring compared to free weights. On the other hand, when a group is training together, like we do, it's a lot easier for the trainers if we're all on machines that are easy to teach, easy to execute, and easy to adjust. Carrie and Melissa, our trainers at the Y, have designed a program for me that emphasizes balance between upper and lower body. My legs are pretty strong thanks to the running and the amount of weight they got used to carrying around on a daily basis for so many years. My upper body is much weaker. During radiation, I lost a lot of muscle mass in my shoulders and chest. I've never been very macho at the pull-ups/dips/push-ups stuff anyway. Hard for those little arms to haul that great big bottom around. The other thing that wants attention in my upper body workouts is my right shoulder. The nerves and muscle the docs had to remove around my tumor has given me a very limited range of motion in that joint. We're working very gently with very light weight to make the muscles that are left stronger so they can compensate for what's missing. It's pretty stiff and sore a lot of the time, but I'm going to keep working on it. I lose a lot of value around the house if I can't reach the top shelves anymore.

Dormont Pool, Dormont PA

Then there's swimming. I haven't been in the pool for a long time.  I remember swimming on a regular basis at Westminster, when we had to pass a swimming class as an all college requirement. From the time I was a child, swimming was considered a skill that everyone was just supposed to have. Not that I ever expected to be adrift at sea, but if I were, I'd be able to cope. I remember reading about JFK's long night swimming miles to save his crew from the PT-109. I'm no Mark Spitz, but were I on Tom Hanks' raft, I could have saved Wilson. We went to Dormont Pool all summer, back when summer actually lasted three months but felt like 10 years. All of us took swimming lessons starting with putting your face in six inches of water and finishing with lifesaving training over at the deep end. Swimming was a given. As I grew older, I swam less and less. I splashed around in the ocean a couple of times. One summer, Jim Ripper and I paddled across Lake Chautauqua. On my first tour with the National Shakespeare Company, we managed to swim in all five great lakes. Huron is surprisingly cold, even in August, by the way. But I've never been a lap swimmer. I found it too tiring and a little bit lonesome. That black line down the middle of the lane was just never enough scenery to hold my interest. Of course there was the biggest obstacle of all. When you're 200 pounds overweight, swimming trunks just aren't your best look.

Bemus Point on Lake Chautauqua, NY

So, there were a lot of things keeping me out of the water, but after a long sweaty workout, that pool at the Y just looked too good. I went to Meijer and found trunks on the clearance rack, then bought myself a pair of those weird little goggles. The good thing about swimming is there is a lot less tempting gear to by. Running culture is full of garments and gadgets that sneak up on you, once you're hooked on a sport that is only supposed to require a tee-shirt and sneakers. I already have a watch to count laps, and don't feel the need to wear a little rubber cap, so  my swimming spending was pretty much done. I was ready to give it a try.

I got to the pool about an hour before class. I took my shiny new suit and goggles out of my bag and padded naked to the shower. Even though the pool is chlorinated enough to take coffee stains out of a white shirt, it just seems like common courtesy to me to rinse off before jumping in. I pulled my trunks on and tightened the drawstring, then put the black goggle thingies over my forehead like I'd seen them do in the Olympics. I realized that I had never worn these things in my life, and wondered how stupid and bug-eyed I looked. Then came the few steps to the door, and out onto the tile pool deck.

Fat Man Swimming

The pool is inside, but there are huge windows on one end of the room. You can see the sun and the grass. The Legacy trail crossed at the far side of the field, so you can see runners and bikers knocking out miles in the sun. The pool is 25 meters long, and during the afternoon there are two lanes designated for lap swimming. The rest of the pool is for summer camp kids who laugh and splash and dunk each other: stuff kids have been doing in the water ever since our ancestors crawled out of it, I guess. I put my goggles over my eyes, jumped into the shallow end and got three surprises. First, the water is warm. Like bath-water warm. Those big windows produce a greenhouse effect that I hope is as effective in the winter as it is now.Then there was the depth. It's only three feet deep. Sure, the water slows you down, but you're still jumping down onto a concrete surface in your bare feet. It's a little jarring. Finally, there were those goggles. Remember how afraid I was that I might look foolish in them? That issue was settled when I splashed into the water and they flew up off my face, twisting crazily around my head. I looked around to make sure nobody saw how stupid I was, and then pulled the little cups back over my eyes. Then I took a deep breath, turned my back to the side, and pushed off down the lane.

I tried out all the strokes I learned as a kid. The breast stroke was always my favorite. I swam it smoothly and slowly, pleased with the way my body slid through the water. The elementary backstroke was probably the second one that my dad taught me, and I always liked it because you could see the sky while you swam. The side-stroke and the front and back crawl strokes were not so successful. They all require a degree of shoulder rotation that I just don't have anymore. So I stuck with the wide, underwater arm strokes. Nobody is going to confuse me with a competitive swimmer, but I do go forward instead of downward, so that's a plus. As I grew more comfortable in the water, I made my strokes a little longer, pulled the water a little harder. I could feel my sides and back working to move me along. Before I knew it, I had  been swimming for 20 minutes. My heart is strong, my breath was even, and my muscles felt energized. I popped into the sauna for a couple minutes, then went back to the locker room. After spinning the water out of my suit at the extractor, I rinsed some of the chlorine off in the shower and padded back to my locker. How about that? I just went swimming!

I think it's a great way to train between runs. Swimming is the lowest impact exercise I can imagine, and there's no question that it's a full body workout. You don't sweat. You don't get blisters. I won't say I enjoy it as much as a run in the woods, but I do like the sound of the water as I move along through it. It's good to be back in the water in a body that can actually move through it without gasping for air.

Tonight, I'm doing the Midsummer Night's Run 5K downtown. I'll be running with some friends, which will be a new experience for me. I'm usually a loner. The forecast is for fairly mild temperatures today, which means less than 100 degrees lately. It should be pretty pleasant by the time the gun fires at 8:30. Mrs P will be there, and Mum is going to see me run for the first time... first time ever, I think. I don't usually think about spectators when I run, but knowing she'll be there cheering me on makes this one kind of special. Not going for any PR tonight. Just a nice run with some nice folks.

Click the poster for info and tickets

My cast moved today's rehearsal so I could get out in time to run. They are so generous and kind to me. It just makes me want to work that much harder. I know I promised to blog more about the rehearsal process, but I've been pretty distracted lately. I'll try to fill in the blanks in the next few days, but in the meantime, just know that End Days is going great. The show is dangerously close to being really special. Actors' Guild's last show was completely sold out before opening night. Don't get closed out of this one. I hope you'll come see it if you're near Lexington.

Peace,
Pennsy

#354: Fighters, Survivors, and the Battle That Goes On

 Five of us, a cousin, a brother, an aunt, a friend, and a Pennsyltuckian all diagnosed with cancer within days of one another. Now there is only one left to tell our story.

Mrs P and Elvin

Cousin Elvin died last night. The cancer in his brain had been stealing him from the family bit by bit. He couldn't speak. Couldn't walk. Couldn't remember. His may have been the cruelest death of all. Elvin's life was joy itself. He was always joking, usually at his own expense. He laughed easily and when he wrapped his big arms around you, you knew you were being loved on. The day I met Elvin, he told the story of stopping by a farm to buy a calf. He had already given the man the money when he realized that he wasn't driving his truck, but his little "Datsun Car."  He flipped the passenger seat down and wrestled that calf in beside him while he drove down the red dirt roads with the windows down so the little gal could stick her nose out and give him room to work the stick shift. It sounds like too good a story to be true, but knowing Elvin, it was too good not to be true. Whenever we would stand next to one another, he would joke that Mrs P had to go all the way to New York City to find a husband bigger than he was. Bigger, maybe, but no tougher. Tough enough that he could never button the top button of a suit coat around his enormous chest. He looked like one of those old-time circus strong men who ripped phone books and bend crow bars with their hands. Tough enough that I don't ever remember him hugging me goodbye without whispering, "I love you." in my ear. I never knew anybody named "Elvin" before Mrs P took me to Kentucky for the first time. And I've never met a man like him before or since. May God bless and guide him home.

"Pa" with his pride and joy

Doug was Mrs P's oldest brother, but he loved me like his own blood. The cancer was so far along when they found it in his colon that they gave him just a few months to live. With courage, stubbornness, and faith in God, he outlasted that grim estimate by almost a year. He knew dying was going to be hard, but he knew he would not face death alone. The last time I saw him, lying on his death bed, surrounded by the people he loved, he raised his tear filled eyes to heaven and said, "It's all gonna be worth it." He knew that God would make good come out of this, even this awful loss. "It's nothing compared to what he suffered on the cross."

"Aint Cathr'n"

Aunt Catherine was a smoker, like so many in our family, and like so many of them, cancer took her lungs. It stole her breath, eventually even her laughter, but it could not take her joy, her love for her family, or her faith in God. Yes, she was happy, but Catherine was not a woman you wanted to cross. Once she accidentally cut a fellow off in traffic, and the boy was so mad that he tailgated her all the way to the Wal-Mart parking lot. Now she was sorry for cutting him off, but he finally got on her last nerve. She screeched to a halt, jumped out of her little sedan, marched back to the big pick up and rapped on the window. "Son, you just ain't had no raisin' at all, have you?" By the time she was done chewing on him, that good old boy was probably glad she didn't send him out back to cut him a switch. Catherine was always the one who showed up when anyone was sick or hurt. She could fill a room with her smile. She used to make fried pies for Mrs P and me when we visited her trailer house for breakfast. Catherine didn't own much, but she was one of the richest women I ever knew. Her treasury was so filled with love that she couldn't help but give it away. She always called you "Honey," and she always said goodbye with, "I love you, Hon." When I was sick, she prayed harder for me than she did for herself.

Bloody Alan

Alan was our friend and our vet. We used  to joke that our cats hated him so much that they called him "Bloody Alan." It was funny because it was so far from the truth. Alan loved animals with an almost missionary fervor. Healing them was his vocation, his sacred calling. He held our first cat in his arms, breathing into her mouth and nose, giving her CPR long after she had drawn her own last breath. He held our Kitten, Mo in his hands as he nursed the little guy back from the brink of death and sent him home with us for the next 15 years. Alan wasn't so lucky. He knew the cancer they found in his pancreas was terminal, right from the start. I was afraid I might die. Alan knew he would. But he never let cancer break his heart. He once wrote to thank me for my blog. He stayed a strong and faithful friend, right to the end.

Fat Man dying... 2008

Pennsy. So that leaves me. By 2008, the fat man in this picture had done everything he could to invite cancer into his life. Two hundred pounds overweight. Twenty years of cigarettes. Never slept right. Never ate right. Ignored his high blood pressure and the pains in his legs until his blood clotted from inactivity. Embracing his own shame and depression until his wife took him to a mental hospital to keep him from killing himself. Any rational captain would look at this crew and say, "throw that one out of the lifeboat. He's the one who will die of cancer." But I didn't. I'm the one who lived. You ever read about "survivor guilt?" I don't have to read about it any more. At one point in the play I'm rehearsing, my character describes the way he was saved from the 9/11 attacks. "If I hadn't run into that guy in the stairwell. Some guy with a flashlight. I don't know who that guy was. I'll never know... I'd be gone too. I should be gone, too."

Sure, I'm grateful to be alive. But it's hard to see much justice in it.

My nephew the Preacher says that God saved me for a reason. I hope he's right. I ask myself every day what that reason might be. Maybe I can give people hope. I can make my life an example, a witness to the fact that even the least deserving Fat Man can keep fighting. You don't have to give up. You don't have to be a slave to food or tobacco or work or your own guilt and sadness. Not even to cancer. You can find help. You can find love. You are not beyond hope.You can get up and run. I hope that's what people see when they see me running or acting or holding hands with my wife, or cutting up in the back row. I hope they find it here on FMR. I hope they see it, when I give them hell for smoking or invite them to join me for a walk or sit silently with them as they wrestle with their own fear of dying. I hope they see that they can fight for their own life, like the five of us did. We fought the bastard to the end. Today, our cancers are dead, but we are still alive. I'm still running, and Alan and Doug and Catherine and Elvin are "dancing around the throne of Jesus," like the Preacher says. None of us were perfect. I was the least perfect of all. I still am. But God saved me to tell our story. Maybe to be a small part of your story.

Cancer killed four of us. But it didn't beat any of us. It couldn't. We refused to give up. We were hundreds of miles apart, but we five still gave one another the strength to keep fighting. And God gave us the strength to help each other. I am here because of them. I can keep running because of them.

And now, so can you.

God, please bless Elvin and Catherine and Alan and Doug. You chose each for a special ministry in this world, and they did their best to serve you. They are with you now, and we are left behind to try to make some sense of the way they lived and the way they died. We are left to remember them with laughter and tears, and to honor them with lives that are better because we knew them. Lord, help us to keep their love alive as we share it with one another. Help us to fight against cancer and all the things that would rob us of the life you created in us. And Lord, if you have the time, please let them know that we love them. We miss them. That we can't wait to see them again. And especially, that we are so very, very grateful for all that they gave us during our too short time together. And please ask that calf to forgive old Elvin for stuffing her into his little Datsun car. He didn't mean no harm by it.


Amen

Peace,
Pennsy

#353: My 50/50 Chance.

They gave me a 50/50 chance of seeing this birthday. Flip a coin. Heads, you live to be 51. That's the best the docs could promise me. But I had an ace in the hole.

Love.

Love made me want to live when I felt like dying.

Love knocked at the door, and helped me to laugh when I felt like crying.

Love made me Chicken and Cheddar Chowder, which is even more fun to eat than it is to say.

Love washed my belly when the stoma around my feeding tube leaked all sorts of creepy goo.

Love answered the prayers I didn't know how to pray.

Love picked me up out of the tub afterI  fainted there in the middle of the night.

Love gave me books on tape when I didn't have the strength to hold a printed copy up.

Love wept tears of grief when they told us I had cancer, and tears of joy when they told us it was gone.

Love insisted I get better so that I could act again, then waited for me until I was ready.

Love lifted me out of bed, taught me to walk, helped me to run.

Love found us a new home, when the bank said we had to leave the old one.

Love never left. Not even when I thought it was gone forever.

They gave me a 50/50 chance. Love rigged the game.

On this, my 51st birthday, I thank God for the love that saved my life. From Hell. From cancer. From depression. I don't know how many birthdays I have left. I hope there are many more. But no matter how long I have left on this earth, I am determined to never spend another second without the love that God has given me.

Take some for yourself. It's my birthday present to you.

Don't worry. I've got plenty.

Peace and Love,,
Pennsy

#352: Living STRONG at the Y

On Monday, I started "LIVESTRONG at the Y" a pilot program at the Northside Y sponsored by a grant from LIVESTRONG. The program is designed to give survivors a chance to move, try different kinds of exercise, and learn the ways that physical activity can help them to beat cancer.This video is a very touching introduction to the work we're doing. There are a team of trainers who work with us. We are 8 cancer fighters in various stages of our battle. Some have been cancer free for longer than I. One woman had a radiation treatment this morning, before she came to the gym. The thing these folks all have in common is that they are all funny, courageous, and unsentimental about the disease. Fighting cancer, and living life are serious business for us, and we are eager to do both with more vigor and joy. We meet twice a week, and I have a feeling you'll be hearing a lot more about the group in the weeks to come.

Today, we did some gentle physical assessments. How long can you balance on one foot? How far can you reach your arm? What are your measurements? How much does a quick 6 minute walk affect your heart rate? Simple stuff. Once we were finished, I had to wait about an hour-an-a-half for Mrs P to pick me up, (we're down to one vehicle right now, due to a non-injury fender bender.) So, I went to the weight room.

What a nice facility! They had some machines that I've only seen on YouTube, and a couple that I hadn't even seen there.

Of course, my favorite station was the power cage. I flew to it like a bug to a zapper. It had been so long since I felt a real barbell resting across my shoulders as I dipped down into a squat. How long since I slipped 45 lb plates onto a bar and felt their heft as I lifted them off the hooks? I watched my eyes in the mirror as I squatted up and down, up and down, chest up, eyes up, squat down, press the heels into the floor, the rhythm of the movement leading me on as I breathed in to go down, then hissed the air out to go up. Three sets of 10 at 135. Not impressive by any standard, but it felt so good to be back under iron.

Then the dead lift. My favorite movement in the weight room. Load up the bar. Catch it in an alternating grip, one overhand, one underhand, to keep the weight from rolling out of your fingers. Dip your knees and feel the weight up your arms and across your shoulders. Eyes up, chest up. The a light hiss of breath as you push down into the ground and pull the weight up your legs to your hips You stand like a derrick with the bar across your front. It hangs there for a moment. Your hands are hooks at the end of taught cables. Then you slide your butt back, keep your chest up, and lower the weight straight down your legs. Bend your knees as the bar passes them. Wear long pants, or your shins will be sorry! The bar slides easily toward the ground as nearly every muscle in your body works together to control its decent. The edges of the 45 lb plates tap lightly on the mats of the gym floor, then the big muscles in your legs and butt and back "reverse engines" to push your body up, pulling the bar with you. 3 sets of 10 @ 135 lbs. I've lifted more, but it's never felt better.

I did some work with the dumbells, and did some woodchoppers at the cable machine. Then it was time for a cool down walk on the treadmill, and some time in a comfy chair working on lines and watching folks swimming laps. That really looked good. I don't think I'll be going to the Y without my swimming trunks again.

I haven't been going to the gym because I really wanted to run, and I didn't want to spend all my time working out. Today reminded me how much I love the feel of the bars, the clang of the plates, and the smell of steel and rubber and sweat that just seems like home to me. I had never set foot in this gym before, but I was welcome and accepted at once, when they saw that I was a member of the fraternity. I knew the secret handshake. I wiped off the bench when I was finished. Some kids came in from the basketball court to do bench presses. They wandered carelessly between lifters and mirrors. They joked. They jostled. They leaned on machines they weren't using. They pushed out some lifts, then ambled away again, leaving a wake of youth and testosterone. We lifters acknowledged one another silently. "Posers," we seemed to be saying with our nods and eye rolls. Real lifters are respected in the weight room, no matter how little iron they can move. We know one another without having to say a word. We share machines. We offer to spot. We leave things the way we found them. I didn't learn any names, and barely shared any words, but I made a handful of new friends today. We met in the weight room. We're going to be working out together for a while.

And it feels great.

But man, are my glutes gonna be sore in the morning!

Peace,

Pennsy

#352: First Comes the Word...

It's a quiet end to a quiet day. The first of either in a while. Time to reflect on my first love.

Some things, you just don't talk about

There are rules in the theatre. You don't whistle back stage or sing in the dressing room. You don't quote the Scottish Play unless you're producing it. You don't criticize your leading lady in public. You don't make your dresser mad. And you don't gossip about what goes on in rehearsals.

It isn't easy to write about preparing a play. At least not publicly. There is a special kind of trust that you have to have in a rehearsal hall. You need to know that you can try something that fails miserably, and not have a bunch of strangers read about it on the internet the next morning. I've often thought about blogging about the process, but this unwritten code always stops me. For the next couple weeks, I'm going to try to open up this part of my life with the gentle respect I feel it deserves. No griping about the director. No gossip about my fellow actors. But I've shared so much of my life here. I don't want to leave my art out of the mix.

I spent most of the day doing character analysis for my next role. I'm playing Arthur, a husband and dad whose heart and mind have been broken by the events of 9/11. As I fall apart, my family falls apart around me until one day when an unlikely teen-aged deliverer walks through the door dressed as Elvis. It's a beautiful, insane, very funny, and I hope very moving story. Nice to spend a few hours doing the kind of work I love, busting a script down into little pieces, scattering them on the floor, and looking for the patterns. I love this part of building a character. It's all about the words.

If a script is a body, the verbs are the muscles. A few nights ago, while sitting backstage at the Arboretum waiting for Richard III to go up, I was pouring over my script when I felt one of the younger actors peeking over my shoulder. "You've underlined some words. Why?" The first thing I do when I start a new script is to get a pencil and a highliter. I highlight my lines so I can find them through my ever dimming eyes during early rehearsals when we're still "on book," walking around carrying our scripts. Then I take my pencil and I underline all the verbs. All of them. They are the action in the language of the play. The verbs keep the story driving forward and the characters moving toward their individual climaxes. Ideally, I have this done before the first table read-through. I never want to read the script without the lens of action before me.

I once worked for a director who was obsessed with "The Three Lists." He had played with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He taught me so much about acting that when I direct, I often find myself repeating his catch-phrases and affecting his accent. He was a maniac about the three lists. After the first read-through, we were expected to have them written and be ready to read them, line by line, out loud.

1.) Everything I say about myself;
2.) Everything others say about me.
3.) Everything I say about others.

I'll bet I haven't played five roles as a professional without doing this work. It is a tedious, hand cramping chore, and it reveals more about a character than any other technique I know. Today, I dug into Arthur's words about himself and learned quite a few things. He says he's sorry a lot. He talks only about himself for quite a while. He makes promises. He makes excuses. He is tired all the time, especially when asked to do something. He says "I don't know" over and over. He hasn't eaten or slept or changed out of his pajamas for a long time. He wonders about what things mean. You start to see patterns when you look at a character this way. Why does he always ask, "What time is it," when he wakes up? What makes him say that he's hungry for the first time? What changed that enabled him to say, "She hates me," or "Take me back," or "I love you so much. Both of you." These are the questions that you use to start filling in the heart and soul of a character, and they all come out of the words that the playwright chose.

Acting is a lot more than just literary analysis. Playing a role is more than just learning the words. But the words come first. Knowing what they mean. Knowing how they're put together. Knowing what the playwright tried to tell you about this person by choosing the vocabulary, phrasing, and thought patterns that are on the page in front of you. A good actor needs a good mind, but you can't just think about a role. You have to have a voice. You have to have a flexible, well conditioned body. You have to have emotional tools and a sense of timing, talent, and taste. You can't really be an actor without all of that.

But first, comes the word...

Peace,
Pennsy