My Evil Twin?

Somewhere in Angeles City I have a doppelganger, or perhaps an evil twin. (Or, maybe I'm his evil twin!)

For months now I’ve had the weird experience of having people look at me strangely, as if they wanted to say something but weren’t quite sure if they should even approach. I’ve always blown it off thinking maybe they’ve seen me at school or at the VFW. I’ve usually just nodded to them or ignored them, and then moved on without much thought. I figured I just had an unapproachable look and let it go at that. I HAVE been accused of having a "mean" face before, so it was plausible.

Last year however, I started to get an inkling of some other explanation for these “funny looks” from strangers, when a girl, a classmate at school, asked why I was so suplado? (That means “stuck up.”) She said she had seen me at one of the malls and called out my name, but I hadn’t even looked up. I told her with full confidence that it certainly wasn’t me since I never go to malls, or to any store for that manner.

In a Fields Avenue bar, minding my own business one afternoon, I was talking with a fellow veteran, when a sassy young bar-dolly comes up to me with a big smile and a hug. With mock anger she excitedly asks me why hadn’t I come back the next day like I’d supposedly promised her. I had no idea what she was talking about. I had never seen her before—Honest! But, she insisted that she knew me—she was convinced of it.

‘Well,’ I thought, ‘maybe I just forgot about her. I AM getting up there in years.'

But I never really listened to my own doubts—I’m not THAT old. I’d never seen her before—I was sure of it, no matter how certain she was otherwise.

Early last year, a squad of three of the local gendarmes flagged me down at a “flying” checkpoint on my way home from school. If you ride a scooter or a motorcycle here you can expect to be pulled over at least once or twice a week, and just before elections the “inconvenience meter” can reach the once or twice a DAY level. I’ve learned to put on an easygoing friendly face with them no matter what in an effort to keep things light and amiable. What they are doing is “fishing for fines,” so I at all times keep everything in order—my license and registration is up to date, and I am NEVER without my helmet. Otherwise, they’ll “reel you in” and finagle 100 or so pesos out of you. But this police stop turned out different from most.

One of the officers looked at me quizzically and said, “Hey, I remember you from last week. Do you remember?” For some reason he seemed irritated with me, which concerned me because I had no idea why.

Carefully, like I would when dealing with an unknown stray, I answered him, “No sir. I don’t remember. I wasn’t stopped by the police last week, so it couldn’t have been me.”

At that, his irritation bumped up a notch into low-grade hostility. Actually, he looked very determined to be angry.

He snapped at me, “You go to Systems Plus right?”

“Yes, that’s right…” I answered uncertainly.

“Well, last week I stopped you by the school for not wearing a helmet and I gave you a break. You said you would see me again later and handle it then. Are you saying you don’t remember that?” As he said it he glared at me.

I had never seen this guy before at anytime in my life and I was not going to admit that I had! So, I stuck by my guns no matter how adamant he was, and HE was VERY adamant. But this anger thing worked both ways because I was becoming as irritated with him as he was with me.

I said to him, “Sir, I don’t know who you stopped last week, but it was NOT me! I’m sorry you think so. It must be someone who looks like me, because it wasn’t me.”

Patting my hand on the seat of my bike and then pointing to it, I asked him, “Take a look at this bike. Was it like this one, the one you stopped?”

He took a close look and that’s when I noticed some doubt finally creep into his face. His partner returned my license and registration and waved me on without any expression on his face. None of the three was happy with me after I had let my temper surface. I knew that was a mistake, but damn it, I felt like I had been provoked. Once again, my “other self,” obviously the “evil one,” had been out raising mischief for me.

Who IS this guy!

This kind of thing has been going on for a couple years now. You’d think I would have run into “evil me” by now; but no, I haven’t yet seen him.

Today though, I think I finally learned the name of this “twin me.”

The recumbent exercise cycle is right next to the front door of the gym. I was peddling it lazily when a customer, an older guy (like me!) wearing glasses, came in for a work out. Passing by me on his way to the check in counter, he nodded and smiled a big gregarious hello.

I thought, ‘Wow! That’s unusual. What a friendly guy.'

A few minutes later the bespectacled man came back and stood just a few feet from me. He was in my personal space and making me feel uneasy. He had a big toothy smile going as if he knew me. He seemed to be expecting me to say something to him, to greet him. He didn’t say anything; he just stood there with hands on hips and smiling dopily at me.

“Hey, how you doing?” I asked vacantly. Thinking maybe I did know him, but had forgot, I queried him further, “I’m sorry man, but do I know you?”

He seemed surprised and nonplussed at my lack of recognition. Ruefully, with a heavy Aussie accent he asked, “Oh, you’re not James? If you’re not him, you sure look exactly like him! Like his twin in fact!”

I thought, ‘Oh boy, here we go again!’ and asked the Aussie, “Tell me, is this guy an American? And he looks exactly like me? Are you sure? Because this isn’t the first time this has happened to me!”

“Yea…” he said in that Australian way that they say “yeah.” They really love that expression. “He’s an American alright…” He went on to say that just a few days earlier he had spent several hours drinking in a couple bars with this guy-who-looks-like-me. Staring at me, I could tell that he still had a hard time believing that I wasn’t this fellow, James.

Well, whoever this James character is, he's got to be one ugly bastard! I just hope he doesn't rob a bank or something. Because if he does, I'm screwed.

Part 1: VA Disability Claims Advice

I’ve decided to start a series of posts on VA disability claims based on what I’ve learned over the last five years of my dealings with the Veterans Administration. Recently, I was let go from my volunteer position as Veterans Service Officer due to what I will call “philosophical differences” with local members of my veterans service organization. I have to say that that was probably a good thing for me, since the psychological pressures and physical requirements of the position were affecting my own physical and mental well-being.

I’ve learned a lot of “VA stuff” over the years, because they know that, local veterans continue to approach me here in the Philippines for advice on how to pursue their claims and appeals. The disability claims system can seem very confusing indeed to the average veteran who, unlike me, does not have the benefit of hundred of cases of experience.

What drives me nuts is that any veteran should even require outside help, and believe me, THEY DO! A law passed in 2000 called “The Veterans Claims Act of 2000 and Duty to Assist” was enacted to TRY to make the VA do right by the veteran by forcing them to tell the veteran what they need to successfully support their claims. Despite the law, the VA rarely does this well. Now, veterans get reams of extra paper filled front and back with procedural code excerpts. Supposedly, the VA does this is to help “explain” their decisions. Unfortunately, to many veterans, all this extra “explanation” reads like gobbledygook and is overwhelming. In my experience what is mostly happening is that VA raters and review officers comply with the letter of the law while ignoring its spirit.

I waited for several reasons to pass out this my VA disability claims “lessons learned.” At first, I wasn’t sure how much applies to veterans outside of the Philippines—I didn’t want to mislead anyone and hurt them with their claims. Also, I was leery about placing this information in the public domain for worry that it might cause young troops to become “sick call rangers.” However, I made up my mind to post after reading recently so much current news on how terrible the VA is at properly and expeditiously rating servicemen’s claims. It’s outrageous.

I realize the Internet is loaded with sites doling out this kind of advice, just the same, HERE is some more! With that said …

• First, you are doing the right thing by getting started NOW. I wish I had known what I am imparting here as I went about completing my military career. Luckily for me, I ran into a vet about a year before I retired and she was nice enough to let me in on the basics of preparation while still on active duty. All I want to do is to try to pass on likewise what that nice lady did for me. She was a Godsend.

• Get EVERYTHING documented. Ensure that every medical issue—past (if possible) and present (most certainly)—is reflected in your records. This includes headaches, twinges, sprains, aches, pains, tenosynovitus, muscle pulls, muscle strains, spasms, tinnitus, hemorrhoids—Everything! Ever had surgery? If you have any numbness, limitation of movement, tenderness—anything at all resulting from your operation—get it documented. Too many Vets try to use as an excuse that they’ve been self-medicating—that it hurt, but they were too busy setting a good example for their troops to make an appointment at sick call or through TriCare. The VA will NOT give much weight to your personal statement as credible evidence. Get your conditions documented in your service medical records or from your personal doctor in a written statement. In other words, the Air Force (or Army, or Marines, or Navy, or Coast Guard) may well appreciate your devotion to duty and your intense willingness to accomplish the mission, but the VA does NOT!

• No matter how minor your ailment, especially if it is orthopedic, get it documented. For instance, if you twist an ankle or knee, strain your shoulder, or pull your back, get to the clinic and get it in your records no matter how minor you think it is.

• Get a Diagnosis. Before you get out, while you still have the chance, check to ensure that your medical record entries show an actual diagnosis is entered and not just a symptom. The navy and army are guilty of doing this the most. Here’s what happens: You go to sick call and a corpsman or medic sees you. He writes down that you are complaining of low back pain or pain in your wrist. (PAIN is NOT a diagnosis!) He gets a prescription approved for a pain killer and that’s all you have in your records. The VA will fight you tooth and nail over your claim stating that you do NOT have a definite diagnosis, and therefore they will INITIALLY deny you every time. Bottom line: get every condition diagnosed to preempt this potential problem.

• Ratings.
• Keep in mind, though, that if you exhibit even a small amount of pain or if, for example, you find it difficult to bend over or do a knee bend, then you will get a minimum of 10% for each disability AS LONG AS THIS CONDITION IS DIAGNOSED TO A DISEASE OR CONDITION. It is important to remember thought that the VA will NOT diagnosis your painful condition. You would suppose they should but they will not. If you are already discharged, you might have to pay to get your own diagnosis. If you do not, then you put yourself at the mercy of the VA (NEVER DO THAT!)
• If it is your knees, you could get 10% for each knee, although it’s possible that the rating board could combine them into a single rating. (The VA rates in increments of 10% starting at 0%, anything over 5% is rounded up to the next 10). Also note that a 0% is still good, because that means the VA is granting service connection for that problem, and if and when it ever flares up again, you can make a claim for an increase. A good example of this is Hemorrhoids. If you had a single flare up for them in your records, but they are fine during the exam, it is common to get a 0% for them as a rating.

No excuses! The VA doesn’t care if you were too busy while you were active duty to get treatment for an illness or ailment. I’ve had retired combat troops who had been injured in the field that had received treatment from field medics, and never bothered to follow up and get that treatment entered in their medical records. Their only recourse is to go back and find that medic or corpsmen and get a statement from him. That can be very difficult if it happened in I Corps in Vietnam in 1967, yet that’s what they have to do. Lesson is—get everything documented—the VA entertains no excuses.

Much more to come... Part 2

Another Gym Talk, and talk, and talk, and talk...

Another day in my local Angeles City gym.

I was a regular chatty Cathy slash rabble-rouser today. First, I noticed Eugene from Olympia, Washington was back after supposedly going back to the States for the summer.

I greeted him, “Eugene! You’re back! You were barely gone for a month. So, you just couldn’t stay away from this place, eh?” I said jokingly.

“Yup, I’m back. I tried to explain to the people back there why I love it here so much, but they just don’t get it.”

I smiled and nodded understanding , “Well, let me guess—you have a little girlfriend out here, right? How old is she….?”

“Twenty-two.”

Eugene is in his late 50s to early 60s. I went on, “And do you have a girlfriend back there?”

He nodded yes. I continued to quiz him, “And how old is she?”

“Forty-seven,” he answered quickly, and continued just as quickly, almost defensively, “but its not JUST the age thing. People back home just don’t understand how sweet the girls are here. They don’t believe me when I tell them. My girl here just takes care of me better, AND she is not demanding in the least. Women back home, well, they NEED stuff! …It’s just easier here.”

I laughed. “Man, do you know how you sound? You sound like a selfish pig…I love it! But I know what you mean. Filipinas are incredibly giving, especially if you find the right one. Sounds like you did. But, I have to ask you. Are you sure your little dolly doesn’t have a local boyfriend or even a husband on the side? You got to watch out for that. It can get you killed if he finds out, or if he has second thoughts about you putting his woman through school. There are times that foreigners get killed by the pop-up drunk-out-of-his-mind boyfriend that he never even knew existed.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one,” he insisted. “But if she leaves me, it’s no big deal. That’s okay.”

“Let me ask you,” I said. “Does she ever have to go somewhere or take off for no good reason?”

“Nope. She pretty much stays in the apartment. She wants to go with me wherever I go.”

“Sounds like you’re good to go then. Paradise is yours. Carry on my friend!” I laughed.

++++++++++

Later, peddling my daily 30 minutes on the recumbent bike, I struck up a conversation with the guy peddling next to me, a tourist passing through for a week of fun and excitement from the States. He’s Philippe, a systems analyst, and a very unique fellow. Obviously mulatto, he says his family came originally from Jamaica. Yet, his accent is as Australian as any I’ve heard; well, maybe a bit muted since I can understand what he says without asking him to repeat anything. He arrived in the USA ten years ago at age 27 from Australia after being sponsored by his dad who had migrated to the States a few years earlier. What a world we live in!

Philippe is quite enamored with this place, specifically with all the wonderful girls. The phrase “kid in a candy shop” comes to mind when talking to him. He asked me what I thought about living here because he was seriously thinking about it himself someday.

I started into what turned into a lengthy lecture, “Well, you’re an analyst. You know what “risk to reward” means, right? THAT is what you get by living here. There are pitfalls and downsides that you MUST be aware of if you want to live here.”

“Really, like what?”

“Well, EVERYTHING! But, I’ll use an example of something you are familiar with—the bars. You notice all the bar managers are foreigners, right? Most of them are on shaky ground because they are probably working illegally without the proper visa. THEY are at risk. Thing is, lots of guys come here who don’t have a pension or some other permanent income source, so they end up as a bar manager. They don’t get paid all that much either, maybe 20 to 40 bucks a day, but that can be plenty enough to live on over here IF they don’t get caught. Now, did you hear about the raid on two of the bars the other night? Well, guess what? The fine for working without a visa can be upwards of 350,000 pesos (about $7600).”

I went on, “There were also bar customers caught up in that raid. Chances are they also were forced to pay up for who-knows-what—perhaps for public obscenity if they had one of the girls on their lap—who knows. It’s whatever they can be threatened with to scare them into paying up. Over here, it’s just easier to pay up than going to jail. And going to jail here can be a frightening prospect, especially if you’re just passing through as a tourist looking for some fun.”

Pausing, I took a breath and glanced over at Philippe who was looking a little worried…

“How often does that happen?” he asked.

“Well, they just voted in a new mayor; so no one knows how he’s going to treat the foreign bar owners. The former mayor used to reach out and squeeze a little milk from the cow every month or so, and this new guy looks like he wants some of that action too. Hell, that one raid probably netted the new administration several thousands of dollars in fines, at least. It’s said that winning a position in government here is like winning the lottery, and that’s why. Used to be they’d find some underage girls, but now that the owners are being more careful they just send in spies to point out to the raiding police which of the girls and their customers were acting “naughty.”

“It sounds risky to be a tourist here,” my peddling companion said nervously.

I continued my lecture, “Like I said, its all about risk-to-reward. My advice is to stay away from any bar where the girls are getting frisky from too many ladies’ drinks, ESPECIALLY if you see male Filipinos come into the bar. It sounds bigoted, but if I see a local male come in, I leave. Many of them are just looking to have some fun, but if they see what they consider to be THEIR women acting too bastos, as they say, they might just call it in to the local constabulary. If you are in the bar when they raid it, you get to stay there for as long as it takes for the cops to process everyone, AND you might just get chosen to be milked. I don’t want to alarm you Philippe, but its better to be safe than sorry, don’t you think?”

++++++++++

Sometime after that I got into another conversation, this time with Eugene and a 79-year-old Chinese American fellow that goes by Roland. Unions came up, so I thought I’d play devils advocate knowing that Eugene is a staunch union man and I have my own negative opinion of them.

I declared, “After serving in the military as an enlisted guy I have a hard time understanding the union mindset, because to me it seems so selfish and money oriented.”

I grinned when I could practically see the hair go up on the back of Eugene’s neck. He spoke up to make a point, “You know what pisses us off? When the big managers, the CEOs who make hundreds of millions a year tell us that we have to lay off workers who make a pittance in comparison to them to keep the company solvent. If the company is doing so poorly then why the hell are they paying those bastards so much to begin with? Of course its wrong.”

I chirped, “Well, when it comes to money, I could have been just as upset over the disparity in pay in the military. I was a Senior Master Sergeant with more than 25 years of experience and yet some young captain with a fraction of know-how makes a hell of a lot more. But, I didn’t dwell on that. For me, money was not the driving force behind my service and never was.”

Eugene complained about the lack of good paying jobs available in the States, claiming that the economy was not booming and that the only jobs to be had are low paying ones.

I shrugged claiming, “If I could work, I’m sure I could get a job that paid what I need. Sometimes you just have to be willing to go to where the work is and to get the training required for it. I did that for 27 years, but what does that have to do with the unions?” I laughed.

I decided to make another point or two: “My dad did his 20 with the Air Force and went to work for GM for 18 more. I almost never heard a good word from him about his time in the union. In fact, he was kind of disgusted with the attitudes of his fellow plant workers. It was always a them-against-us mentality—blue collars against salary. He struggled with that after having a mission to accomplish in the military. Civilians, especially union people, just don’t seem to have a sense of purpose. Their purpose is to force the company to meet their demands and to make sure they keep their jobs by making up a whole bunch of ridiculous rules.”

“Like what?” Eugene asked.

I answered, with hardly a pause, “How about rules about not letting workers do each other’s jobs. How stupid is that? It’s wasteful and adds cost to the product. Like ONLY electricians can change light bulbs. Like a machine operator not being allowed to assist the skilled workers when their machine breaks down. The button pushing machine operator loves it when his press stops working because he gets to read his paperback and have a coffee instead of doing something useful like holding a flashlight for the electrician. That’s just stupid. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, there are safety considerations. You can’t allow people to do work that they aren’t qualified to do. It can get someone killed or even cause a plant disaster!” Eugene responded heatedly.

“Hey, I know all about safety. In the Air Force we have 18-year-old kids working on high performance jet aircraft that are every bit as dangerous and explosive as anything in a factory. But we don’t have enough people to say that certain careers can ONLY do a limited number of jobs. We have a training system that systematically forces airmen to learn lots of other tasks outside of their career field. Every single task learned is documented and signed off by the airman and his trainer. Why can’t the unions do that? Why does it always have to be about artificially keeping the employee numbers up? What you’re doing is cutting your own throats. Do you think they have those silly rules in Japan, or China, or Korea, or Brazil? Hell no! And that’s why we can’t compete with them. They can make products a hell of a lot cheaper than we can. We either learn how to compete or close down all our manufacturing plants and send them overseas.” I stopped and gave Eugene a chance.

He did, “Well, maybe you’re right about some of those things, but I don’t think OSHA will let us do what you’re talking about.”

“Well, how about this. When my dad got into the Steering Gear plant he could hardly believe it when he saw that there were no programs to control the tools to make sure they were all accounted for and maintained. He also saw that there was no program to keep track of test equipment maintenance and calibration. And, he brought up the fact that there was no one watching over the publications to make sure they were up to date. He learned how to manage all those programs in the service. Yet, when he pointed out the need in the plant he got the shrug from both foreman and fellow workers. Finally, he got the go ahead and set up the programs. He set it all up just like the Air Force programs he was familiar with. He also took it upon himself to keep the programs going. THAT is the kind of initiative that ex-military people bring to the table. Unions stifle that kind of personal involvement.”

“Yeah, there isn’t a whole lot of that kind of thing sometimes. The system just doesn’t reward it,” Eugene conceded.

I wasn't done. “Get this—when my dad took his early retirement from Steering Gear no one took it upon themselves to keep his programs going. He was excited when one of the foremen called him and asked him to work as a part-time consultant to manage them. He didn’t need the money, but he thought it would be a neat way to stay in touch with his work buddies. But you know what? They all treated him like crap, because NOW he was no longer part of the union. They shunned him. Now THAT is bullshit! Is that what being in a union is all about, acting like a jerk?”

Poor Eugene didn’t know how to respond, but he tried halfheartedly, “Yeah, that kind of garbage can happen. It’s not right. I know.”

I decided I’d better let up on old Eugene. I noticed about then that he wasn’t so happy with me. He stalked off to his next set on another machine.

“Time to get back to work guys,” said Roland, who had been mostly just listening. He grinned, shaking his head with a wink at me through his spectacles. “Making friends I see,” he laughed.

+++++++++++

And finally, I had noticed a pretty young dark-haired girl with long perfect legs working out with a wooden staff. She had it over her shoulders and was twisting at the hips to get loose. The problem for me is that she was doing it so that two of the machines were not available for use. I asked her if I could squeeze into one of them. She took the hint and went into the aerobics room where she should have been in the first place. I was happy to see that Eugene was apparently over being miffed at me when he remarked that they should put up some signs to keep people from using the staff in the weight room.

I too ended up in the aerobics room a short time later. The last thing I do everyday is my matt work where I do my crunches and stretches. The pretty girl was lying on the floor using the crunch machine, but mostly resting between sets. She started to sing along to one of the old 80’s disco tunes filtering in from the main room, but stopped.

“Hey, feel free to sing if you want. Don’t mind me.” I told her.

She chuckled a little, “I forgot you were here…”

“Yeah, I know; I’m used to being invisible to pretty young girls,” I answered cheerfully. “You have an accent. Are you English?”

She answered that she was from London. Why is that? Whenever I ask someone if they are from the UK and they are from London, they feel compelled NOT to claim England as their home, but insist on declaring that they ARE from LONDON.

“What brings you to the Philippines?” I asked.

“I’m just visiting. My father lives here and apparently loves it.”

“Oh yeah, is he married? Or is he going to get married to a Filipina?”

She was adamant, “NO! I won’t let him. I would never give him my permission. I just spent two months in Thailand, and I know how the girls are.”

“Are you half-Filipina? Is your mom from here? Can I see your face?” She turned fully toward me and I saw a very beautiful girl without so much as a hint of Asian ethnicity.

“No, I’m completely English.” At least I think that’s what she said. Her words were barely comprehensible to me. When I listen to Tony Blair HIS English seems so clear, but with so many others from the UK I really have to concentrate to catch their meaning. It’s frustrating.

“Oh, I see. So, are you still a student? What do you do?”

“No, not anymore. I’m finished going to school.”

“That’s nice. Did you get a degree?”

“No. I would have to go to university.” She went into the particulars of the English tertiary education, but I could only understand every third word or so.

I interrupted her laughing, “I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. Why is it that English comes from England yet hardly anyone from there speaks it clearly—or is it just me?”

She smiled politely. I don’t think she understood what the heck I was talking about. Of course to her, she speaks as plain as day.

I continued my barrage of questions, “So what do you do? You working?”

Back to lying on her back to do another set I thought she said, “I’m self-employed. I’m a pole-vaulter.”

I was impressed. “I knew it. You LOOK like an athlete. So where do you compete? Where are your track meets—in Europe?”

“What? What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Didn’t you say that you are a pole-vaulter?”

“No, I’m an exotic dancer.”

I laughed. “Oh my God! See! That’s what I mean. I can’t understand your London English. Well, that makes even more sense. You definitely look more like a dancer than a track athlete.

I gave up while I was behind, since I FELT like a horse’s behind by then anyway. Oh well, just another day in the gym.

Barefoot Runner

It’s time for another runner’s tale.

It was the early summer of 1980. I was but 22 years old and impatiently waiting to get into the Air Force. During the 7 months it took me to transfer between the Marines and the Air Force I lived with my parents in our home on Beyer Road in Birch Run, Michigan. My wife and baby daughter were visiting family in the Philippines and I was missing them. They had been away for weeks.

To while away the days as I looked forward to my family’s return, I ran the rural roads of the area, feeling nervous about my forthcoming transition to my new service branch. My weight was down to less than 130 lbs, but I was feeling pretty good. I was lean and mean, and in pretty good running shape.

I don’t know if they still do it, but the old hometown used to have a homecoming celebration every year at the Buster Brown Memorial Park just up Beyer Rd from our house. Unfortunately, the park doesn’t exist on that site any longer. Now, that area and much of the fields and woods around it are no more, covered completely with concrete and hundreds of outlet stores. Truthfully, I hate it. As far as I’m concerned, Birch Run sold its soul for a buck. For me, it’s no longer my home; I don’t know the place anymore.

But back then the park was still just a large grassy area with some playground equipment. It also had a double wooden pavilion on a concrete slab, a pair of tennis courts and a couple of softball fields. Its parking lot was nothing but a square of blacktop and a whole lot of dusty gravel. They had advertised for weeks all the fun and competitive things that were going to happen at that year’s homecoming (actually, my brother informs me that it must have been the 4^th of July); good clean family stuff like horseshoes, tennis, softball, and a foot race. I thought the race would be fun to try, so in preparation I mixed in a little speed work with my distance runs, but nothing special.

Most of my family showed up early that sunny Saturday morning so they could see me run. My dad had worked the nightshift at Saginaw Steering Gear during the four years I had competed in high school in the early 70s so this was one of the only opportunities he ever had to see me race. Actually, I’m pretty sure he had missed everyone of my track and cross-country meets. The fact that he was there I thought was pretty neat. It kind of felt like it used to when my parents came to see my all my little league games back in the 60s.

I signed up at a folding table and noticed that I seemed to be the only adult meaning to run. Most of the other racers were just kids—girls and boys aged 10 and up. One older teenage boy with a shock of blond hair caught my eye because he was warming up barefooted. I wandered over in his direction and listened to him talk to some other interested bystanders. He was 16-years-old and was bragging that he had trained for months without shoes; and according to him, the soles of his feet were as tough as leather. Just the same, I had a hard time believing that he would be able to run like that for long, since Beyer Rd was not a smooth blacktop, but pebbly surfaced asphalt. I was sure his feet were going to rip to shreds. His braggadocio rubbed me the wrong way. I was going to have to do something about that.

The organizers called us all out to the road to get the race started. I lined up behind the passel of excited kids and that young blonde-headed barefoot fellow. I was completely unconcerned with my so-called competition—in a word, I was overconfident. When the starter’s pistol went off I even lingered a few seconds to let the little mob of racers take off at what I knew was an unsustainable sprint. In no time at all, they were strung out in a line of 20 or so struggling “amateurs,” as I thought of them. I did notice however, that Mr. Barefoot was way out front—he was a good 60 or 70 yards ahead of me by the time I started to actually race. Seeing him so far out in front I figured it was time to get serious.

A mile—that’s all the race was supposed to be, so I knew I’d better start reeling in some people, especially Mr. Barefoot. Less than 100 yards into it and I had passed all the others but one—Mr. Barefoot. I concentrated on quickening my pace, and slowly but surely, I pulled him back to me. By the way, that’s runner’s talk for “I caught up to him.”

The turn around point was at a little bridge just past the Baylor’s house, which was the very next house after ours. Sheriff Cramer, driving the town’s cop car, was down there waiting for us. You know, I think he might still be “the top cop” in Birch Run even until today. If so, he must be in his 70’s by now. Or maybe they passed the position on to his progeny, kind of like the royals do with the succession of their crown.

I was only 20 or so yards behind the running barefoot boy when he made the turn just past the bridge. I studied him closely as we approached each other. I took some satisfaction in seeing that he was mincing along on what looked to be very sore feet. I smiled at him and waved, making sure to show him absolutely no fatigue, no weakness. In truth, I was beginning to feel a little pain myself, but I wasn’t going to show him that. My plan was to defeat his confidence before soundly beating him to the finish line.

I made the turn at Sheriff Cramer’s car and kicked my pace up a smidge to catch Barefoot Blondie. I was at his side by the time we passed my house about 100 yards from the bridge. For a moment, I stayed just behind him on his right shoulder and observed him. I was correct about his feet; he was stepping on them pretty gingerly. Still, I was amazed that he was able to continue running on them. He was in pain and it was affecting his gait—he was definitely slowing down. I thought I’d try to get into his head a little before crushing him physically.

“How you doing buddy?” I asked him without a trace of effort in my voice.

“Terrible!” he gasped.

“Oh really? …Good.” I smirked and took off in front of him in a spurt of speed.

“What!” I heard him say in an exhalation of outrage. At the same time, I heard his feet pick up his pace as he too kicked up his speed a notch. I cringed just listening to the fleshy padding sound that his unprotected soles made against the rough asphalt. Now, it was his turn to run just behind my right shoulder. I began to think that this kid was the real deal. He was showing a lot of moxie.

We practically sprinted as we passed the Stainforth’s place and then the Totten’s. Back then, a large block of woods several hundred yards long still existed from there up to a modest cabinet factory. We battled along back and forth along that wooded stretch right up to a little strip motel called the Cardinal Inn just after the little factory. After that, we were back to the edge of the park.

A wide sweeping curve in the road formed the northwest corner of the park; as we approached it I could hear the spectators start to shout encouragement at the two of us. Upon hearing them, Barefoot Boy made his move to go around me. I could hear his family and friends well over my own family members, and the juvenile egomaniac striving to pass me was obviously receiving inspiration from his enthusiastic vocal support. Damn it!

By then, both of us were breathing raggedly. He came abreast and I merely pumped my arms faster to stay slightly ahead. I had learned long before that the legs follow the arms. He was unable to get past me—I wouldn’t let him. I thought for sure he would start to cave, but no, he continued his charge.

As we came through the broad bend and into the last 150 yards into the homestretch I found another gear and kicked into it. Unbelievably, the kid sped up right along with me. By this time the onlookers were screaming at us. It was a blur of sound that worked to drive the two of us into new levels of effort. If I hadn’t been racing him, I would have been very impressed with the kid. Thing is, you can't beat someone while feeling "impressed" with them. I began to realize that I shouldn’t have taunted him. This young fellow was tough! Still, I knew down in my guts that I WOULD beat him.

The finish line was more than halfway to the top of a man made upgrade in the road that ultimately led to the I-75 overpass. As we got to the bottom of that hill we were side-by-side and panting like steam powered locomotives. The finish was the entrance to the park up the hill and to the left. It was going to make for a very awkward race conclusion, but all I could think of was getting there first. Mr. Barefoot, to his credit, had the exact same thing on his mind.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, I was slightly ahead of him. To my surprise he was able to find the energy to surge ahead of me. I was shocked and enraged. With only 15 yards to go I forced my feet to almost double in turnover, again by using my arms. For that last 10 yards I ran as fast as I EVER have in my entire life, before or since. I flashed past the kid, bolted to the left and across the finish just 3 or 4 feet ahead of my fierce competitor.

Improbably, that little so-called fun-run turned out to be the most aggressive race I’ve ever run.

After the race notes:

While I was bent over holding my shorts at the knees I was amused to hear Barefoot Boy’s mom complain bitterly that I should not have been allowed to compete in the race against her "little boy" (He was actually physically bigger than me.) It reminded me of my little league days when my own parents became incensed because of an over-sized 12-year-old player, a catcher, on the other team. Parents WILL do and say those things I realized. I shook my head and smiled at their sour grapes.

Once I could speak normally again, I went over to the kid and shook his hand. His feet were hamburger. How he raced so strongly like that I have no idea. I told him that he might well have beaten me if he had worn running shoes.

Life is a funny thing. That was a mere pickup race, a throwaway run, and yet it turned out to be one of the defining memories of my racing career—and all because some young showoff was determined to win a little race in front of his family. Sorry, but I couldn’t let that happen, not with my own family watching!

I’m sure we both learned something from our experience—overconfidence (not curiosity) can kill the cat.

Idol Thoughts: The Final

That was a very disappointing show. There was no real breakout performance by either contestant. Blake showed what a true gentleman he is by winning the toss and STILL giving Jordin the choice of first or second. He is a good guy; you got to love him.

Blake started out with “You Give Love a Bad Name,” a song he did recently; and even more than last time, he really spiced it up with his trademark beatboxing. I loved it. For me, it was THE performance of the night. Randy has always found fault with his special talent, I suppose thinking that American Idol should only be a singing showcase. Surprisingly, Simon voiced approval, saying it was his best performance ever.

Jordin did Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter,” a very contemporary song. I think it was a mistake. Christina has a powerful voice, much more so than Jordin’s, and her comparatively weak rendition of the song drove home that point. She looked nervous, and uncomfortable. She forced the high riffs, something that was pointed out by Simon who said she shrieked at times. At the end of round one Simon in fact said that Blake won it.

Blake’s second song was Maroon 5’s “She Will be Loved.” At first, I liked his version of it more than the original. But then, I noticed that his voice is starting to show the strain. He is NOT a natural singer. The competition is taking its toll. As the song progressed he got flat at times and even hoarse. Simon said the song was too “safe” and a poor choice for a final show as it lacked impact. I think he needed to stay safe, exactly because his voice is at the end. This competition is ending just in time for Blake. Even so, I love how loosey-goosey the boy is. I can tell he is NOT desperate to win and for me, THAT is endearing.

Jordin’s number 2 was Martina McBride’s “A Broken Wing,” a country tune. Randy had the audacity to say she sounded better than Martina. No way! I will say though, that Jordin did a good job of not pushing the high notes and staying within herself. The song came out quite nicely, although not as great as the three judges gushed that it did. Once again, their obvious choice is Jordin, just as it once was Melinda.

Blake’s final song, “This is My Now” is a sappy forgettable ballad written by the winners of the song writing competition. He struggled valiantly through it. Plain and simple, the song sucks. I can’t believe that was the best song written. Talk about “ho-hum.” As I said, his voice is all done. All three judges acknowledged that the song did not suit him.

Jordin of course also sang, “This is My Now.” Not even she could make it sound good. Obviously, she did not enjoy singing it. Her emotions got the better of her at the end of it, I believe due to her disappointment in her performance of it. It’s funny that none of the judges acknowledged her emotional stumble. Well, Randy did a little, but incorrectly attributed it to the emotion of seeing her parents—Wrong! She lost it once she believed she sounded less than perfect. The judges gushed all over themselves in praise of her efforts. I think she was shocked at their disingenuous response, but I wasn’t.

Randy and Simon, the singing “purists,” are obviously pushing for their new favorite. Paula loves everyone. She’s almost irrelevant. Simon went so far as to say that Jordin wiped the floor with Blake. What a jerk! Blake is a nice fellow and Simon didn’t need to get that personal, and it was personal.

As for me, I’m a Blake fan. I liked him before tonight and he gets my support. Based on the judge’s reviews it would seem that Jordin wins American Idol 2007. Personally, I HOPE Blake wins. After all, lets admit it—the show IS in actuality a popularity contest. It’s not just about the singing.