Signs of Change

     Can you tell what the above picture is? Nope, not blueberries. No, the Easter Bunny hasn't been here yet, but you're getting warmer. Its deer poop. This is not a new occurrence. My backyard has been marked as a public toilet on deer maps for years now. However, it has always been in neat, manageable piles that I can deal with. This year the devilish creatures have decided to kick it all over my sidewalks, as though watching us bipeds accidentally discover it in the tall grass wasn't hilarious enough. Just as I was about to look up my local sporting goods store, I had a moment of zen. Here I am with the same problem I've had for years, I've done nothing about it, (thinking it was as bad as it could possibly be), and now its worse. Its time for something to change. To the best of my knowledge deer aren't too big on New Year's resolutions, so the ball is firmly in my court.

     I'm not just talking about the sprinkling of wild feces, either. All manner of calamity, local or foreign, human caused or natural, bipedal or antlered, is stepping up its game. I'd better do the same, if only for survival's sake. Therefore, I've decided to study and assimilate necessary skills from the two most obvious role models for navigating today's perilous situations. MacGuver and Batman. I've never even bothered to attempt a New Year's resolution before. They seem to be a waste of time, since I've never even heard of a success story related to making a change at this particular time of year. The prospect of becoming Mac-Bat-Man, however, sounds enticing. No wait, that sounds stupid. Guyver-Bat? Ooh! Bat-Guyver! That's it! I'll become the first Bat-Guyver! Silly, you say? Let me explain.

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     MacGuyver was the original life hacker. He didn't go out and buy the latest gadget, he used what was around him and made it work. He was able to look at a situation differently, to think his way around it, and create a solution where there was none. He didn't give up simply because he didn't have the right tools for the job, he was resourceful. I will need these qualities if I am going to be able to train like Batman, mainly because I can't afford the equipment Bruce Wayne plays with. Even despite his wealth, Batman was self-made. No super powers, just hard work and education. He didn't wait for his enemies to cause trouble, he proactively gave trouble to his enemies. Once he learned to conquer his fear, he learned to conquer everything.

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     No, I am not afraid of deer. But they will be afraid of me. The time has come to lock in fitness, rather than occasionally brushing up against it. The time has come to mine the valuable materials from my junk pile and dispose of all that is unnecessary. The time has come fill my head with new and useful information, purging the useless TV trivia floating around in there. Deer won't dare to tread over my property line once they see me. Should one be brazen enough to do so, (likely a teenage deer), it will receive nothing less than a face-full of glitter from my utility belt. Have you ever tried to wash off glitter? It never goes away! That deer will get laughed at for the rest of its natural life! So declares Bat-Guyver!

     Now if you'll excuse me, I've got seven seasons of MacGuyver and some Batman movies to watch. This is going to require popcorn...

Tough Mudder: Crawl Toward the Light

     I am now two months into my marathon training. No, I am not running a marathon, that would be silly. I am going to run a Tough Mudder. Possibly even twice in one day. It was my little brother’s idea. He’s a marine. Marines live life with the philosophy that the hard way is the only way. I tend to live life with the philosophy that the easy way has ice cream. I might die.
     For those who may be unfamiliar with the Tough Mudder event, this is what the official web site says:

     “Tough Mudder is a team-oriented 10-12 mile (18-20 km) obstacle course designed to test physical strength and mental grit. Tough Mudder puts camaraderie over finisher rankings and is not a timed race but a team challenge that allows participants to experience exhilarating, yet safe, world-class obstacles they won't find anywhere else.”

     As someone who has run four of them so far, I can tell you what it really is: a place where young, fit people gather to impress each other with feats of strength and endurance, as well as a place where past-their-prime fools come to prove to themselves that they still have something left in the tank. I fall squarely into the latter category. Curiously, there are also those who think it is the perfect place to wear a Halloween costume, which greatly enhances the entertainment value for those spectators who have come to watch members of their family die on the field of battle. (No joke. Participants must sign something known as a “death waiver.”)
     Actual course design will vary depending on location. Participants are not allowed to know the layout or obstacle list until just a few days before the event to ensure that no one can train for specific challenges only. Not that it would matter. You could train to be able to do one hundred pull-ups and it would do you no good because by the time you can use that skill on the course you are completely exhausted. There are a few obstacles that are guaranteed to be at every location. Course designers have assigned what they believe to be clever names to each of them. Having experienced them all, I will share my secrets to surviving a few of these sadistic torture devices, which have been updated to 2.0 for 2015.

Arctic Enema 2.0: A giant trash dumpster is lined with plastic and filled ice cubes and topped off with water. A wooden divider is placed in the middle, rising about a foot above the water line. A semi trailer loaded with bags of ice is kept on hand to maintain extremity-shrinking temperatures. (34 degrees on average.) Entry into the obstacle is made by way of a slide that is covered by a section of chain-link fencing, forcing you to lay down. The idea is to slide in, help your teammates over the wall in the middle, and hop out of the other side. What actually happens is that as soon as you hit the water, the cold hits you back with a sucker punch to the gut. At this point all cognitive functions cease and you find you can leap over the wall and other participants using nothing more than your toes. When you make it out, be sure to take some time to apologize for any clawing, kicking, or drowning you may or may not have taken part in during the frothy melee.

Funky Monkey 2.0: A steel A-frame structure is set up with multiple rows of monkey bars ascending up one half, and corresponding straight pipes descending the other side. Between the two, at the apex of the structure, is a horizontal bar that hangs just close enough to grab, and then swings and stops just short of the straight pipe. The whole thing is set up over a chest deep water pit. (Warning: the bars are often sprayed with cooking oil. Jerks.) Mechanically, it is easy to figure out the procedure. Realistically, unless you do a lot of pull-ups, its nothing like when you were a kid. If you hit heavy oil, you’re going for a dip. Just be grateful for the chance to wash off the mud. If you’re lucky enough to follow behind the poor saps who rubbed off all the oil for you, then speed is your friend. (Mainly because grip strength is your enemy.) Tough Mudder personnel will tell you not to swing more than once on the transition bar, if your arms haven’t popped out of their sockets by that point, so get your swing going before then. Grab the bar on your back-swing, and be prepared to follow through and grab the straight pipe after the jerking halt of the transition. The straight pipe is larger and more difficult to hold on to, so feel free to swing, shimmy, and bicycle kick your way down to solid ground. Few make it all the way across.

King of Swingers: Originally called Walk the Plank, a platform is built at least fifteen feet above a water hole. All you had to do was step off when the lifeguard told you to, and then swim to the edge and climb out. Now there is additional structure involving a metal swinging T-bar and a bell on a rope. The idea is to jump out to grab the T-bar, swing forward, reach out to hit the bell, and then fall the fifteen feet into the water and swim out. Heightened people like myself have an advantage here. Our wingspan puts the bell well within reach. Others must let go of the T-bar and flail in the general direction of the shiny bell, and follow with a spectacularly painful looking water landing. Spectator satisfaction is very high on this obstacle. Practice grabbing your nose mid-flail, or you're bound to inhale mystery fluid.

Mud Mile 2.0: It might not be a mile long, but it sure feels like it. A series of trenches about six feet deep are filled with chest deep water. The goal is to climb from mud hole to mud hole until you’ve traversed the entire length. You will not be able to do this alone. Help and get help from people around you. (Warning: this is an extremely likely place to have your calf muscles cramp. Mine have twice. Try not to jump!) Your knees could get scraped up on this obstacle, but fight the urge to wear knee pads. They look stupid. Unless its part of your costume, in which case you’re supposed to look that way.

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Everest 2.0: You know those big half pipes that skateboarders do their big tricks on? Take half of one of those and cover it with oil and mud, and you’ve got Everest. This year they made it taller and took away the lip so that there’s nothing to grab on to. This obstacle is always near the end of the course, when complete exhaustion has set in. Ignore the young kids who scamper up with no trouble. They are actually little bird people with hollow bones. Your goal is to aim for the huge guy reaching his unnaturally huge arm toward you. He comes in different shapes and sizes, but he's always there. If you can make it to his hand, the next step is to swing a foot up high enough for someone else to grab. Then just hang on as your dead weight is hauled unceremoniously over the edge. Then turn around to do the same for the next person, if your noodle arms still work. Its not pretty, but you’re covered with mud and no one will recognize you anyway.

Electroshock Therapy 2.0: The last obstacle you encounter will always be Electroshock Therapy. Wooden framework supports hundreds of dangling exposed wires, each carrying 10,000 volts of electricity, plus “hot zones” that carry 15,000 volts. There will be ankle deep mud and short hay bale walls to get over, as well as some guy with a microphone commentating and spraying you with a hose. The faster you get through, the fewer times you will get zapped, but too fast and you will hit the ground harder when your entire body locks up from the shock. If you’ve touched an electrified fence on a farm, then you’ve sort of felt what its like. Your main goal is to protect your head. Getting shocked in the cranium results in what Tough Mudders call “brain reboot.” It happened to me. One minute you’re running through wires, the next you’re picking yourself up off the ground with no memory of falling. Protect your head! Other than that just concentrate on keeping your footing. Falling just puts your head by the exposed wires. When you make it to the other side you can hold your head up, (with your hands if necessary), and have the coveted orange headband placed on your noggin.

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     Mudders who have participated in more than one event are considered part of the Mudder’s Legion. And Legionnaires get a few extra benefits like extra obstacles, the right to bypass Electroshock Therapy, and the option to get in line for another round. Be sure to bring trusted family members to cheer you on and document your demise. If all that and more sounds like something you’re willing to pay money to experience, then I welcome you as a sibling on the course! Unless you’re one of those young, fit people, in which case I would ask that you not step on my carcass as you skitter past. And don’t laugh, I might be on my second lap.

Living a heightened life.

     Life is short. At least, that’s what most product manufacturers think. From clothes, to cars, to the very homes we live in, personal vertical progression past the six foot mark becomes essentially perilous. And its getting worse.
     It used to be that what I call “heightened” people could compensate for flood pants by wearing boots and just outright avoid long sleeved shirts. Nowadays finding something that even comes close to fitting is like winning the lottery. Twice. I have come to the indisputable conclusion that there exists a person or people who, for whatever reason, harbor a great disdain for heightened people and somehow managed to gain control of the entire clothing industry. How else to you explain “tall” sized pants that only extend the length from the waist to the crotch? What about the reasoning behind clothing assembled on the assumption that an increase in height equals an increase in waist size? You can’t point to manufacturing costs to explain these blatant offenses. The conspiracy minded might think that this is all an effort to more readily identify the heightened for extermination once population restrictions are in place. (Larger people go first, as they are bigger drains on resources.) Tall people can slouch to hide their advantage, but they can’t hide billowy shirts and a waist line cinched up around their ribs.

     Car manufacturers aren’t much better. There is no back seat suitable to those with reasonably proportioned extremities. Finding a vehicle with enough leg room to drive isn’t a win, because then you’re sitting so far back that you have to hunch forward and attempt to swivel your head 180 degrees to see when the traffic light above you changes. And no, sun roofs and convertibles don’t fix the problem when the top of your head is pressed against hot glass or your eye level is in direct alignment with the top of the windshield frame. When the rear view mirror blocks your view out of the windshield, you know there’s a problem.

     If you haven’t guessed yet, I am one of the heightened. That makes me part of the 14.5 percent of people over six feet in the United States with forehead scars from ceiling fans. And not enough is being done about it. Michigan is currently the only state that prohibits height discrimination, but that only applies to the work force. We can do better. That’s why when I come into power the following changes will be made:
     1 - All clothing manufacturers will be required to take a training course on the use of a tape measure and the difference between human beings and mannequins.
     2 - Minimum required ceiling height in all buildings will be raised from 7 feet to 9 feet to compensate for hazardous light fixtures. Additionally, all doors and entryways will have a minimum height of 7 feet.
     3 - All vehicle manufacturers will be required to have separate models with the “TL” designation for all products that will accommodate heightened people.
     4 - All forms of public transportation will provide seating appropriate for people of better than average height and width. (Because I fight for both the big AND the tall!)
     5 - Bed manufacturers create a new size, Emperor, that will be no shorter than 7 feet.
     6 - All shower heads will be mounted no lower than 7 feet, and all bath tubs will be made in longer sizes. (And since we’re in the bathroom, all mirrors and stall dividers must reach ceiling height.)
     7 - The tips of open umbrellas will be blunted to prevent eye injury and puncture wounds to the neck.
     8 - All chiropractors will provide a discount of their services to the vertically enhanced as a matter of gratitude for keeping them in business until such time as all other requirements on this list are met.

     This list could go on forever, but I will start with these in the interest of basic human dignity and safety equality for heightened people. There are plenty of other things that will have to be changed as well that have nothing to do with being tall, like plastic grocery bags with the tensile strength of wet tissue, but that is an ever expanding list that I don’t have time to enumerate here because I’m busy coming into power. It might take a while, chiropractor appointments are not known for their brevity.

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World domination, block by block.

     I figured it out. It came to me while I was playing a video game. It was right in front of me this whole time. I know what world domination looks like, and its going to be cute.
     Theories abound concerning the ultimate endgame of the single world government plot. Popular culture would have us believe that failed scenarios result in various types of apocalypse, while successful world takeovers yield technologically advanced utopias that conceal evil totalitarianism. The truth, it turns out, is something else entirely. Fingers point in every direction, all of them missing the mark, while a privately held company in Denmark continuously churns out the building blocks of our future society. That’s right. I’m talking about Lego. Hear me out. Our future depends on it.
     It is not my intent to discredit all other theories, as it would seem that they each have a small part of the truth in them, but collectively this is the only thing that makes sense. Take the Rise of the Machines Theory, for instance. Supposedly, we will create ever increasingly intelligent computers to perform all manor of labor for us, inevitably reaching the point where their undisciplined genius gives way to laziness, whereupon they realize that they don’t want to work any more and decide to reverse the slave/master relationship. I just don’t see it happening that way. But what if we don’t create smart machines, but become them instead? Neuroscientist Randal Koene figures we can upload humanity into a computer and plans to do so with his own brain. Far fetched, you say? Scientists at The Open Worm Project have already put the mind of a worm into a wheeled robotic Lego body! Coincidence? And then there’s the idea of a global takeover by powerful corporations. Chew on this: Not only is Lego the single biggest toy company in the world, it is also, as of February 2015, the biggest brand name in the world, stealing that title from Ferrari. That’s right, until February we were in danger of living in a world full of expensive high performance vehicles and mandatory pizza nights. Not as crazy as it sounds, the Illuminati got their start in Italy…

     So now we are looking at humanity as we know it being uploaded into computers with Lego bodies. But won’t we destroy the planet by converting our entire civilization into plastic? Nope, they thought of that. Lego just announced a plan to convert their products into completely “sustainable” materials by 2030. Diabolical.

     So what benefits are they going to sell us on to pull this off? In a Lego world the differences between genders will evaporate, health care will no longer be necessary, violence in all its forms can be undone by simple reassembly, all our “sustainable” plastic vehicles will be electric, obesity will be a style rather than an epidemic, no one will have to worry about stepping on small Lego pieces hidden in the carpet because our feet will be made of the same material, and the list goes on. It has long been theorized that Hollywood creates movies that gently present concepts to the public in order to make it easier for them to accept when the time comes to make some world changes. For those who are paying attention, many popular Hollywood films are getting the Lego treatment in the form of video games, thereby allowing us to equate what we see in film with an exact Lego replica. How long will it be before they start replacing the real world with a Lego version?

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     Its time to wake up, people! We cannot allow our lives to be taken over by this cute simplicity! We cannot let a flat square become the only body type option! I, for one, will not stand by and watch civilization as we know it be reduced to colorful bricks with build instructions. I will be leading a campaign against these usurpers of human individuality, and I hope you’ll join me. Just as soon as I help Lego Batman find this last golden brick…

Did it myself.

Despite my proclivity for inflicting wounds with hand tools, I have never been one to give up my hard earned cash for a job that my mind tells me I should be able to do myself. Whether or not I am successful in the endeavor is entirely irrelevant, as it provides valuable education as to the inner workings of modern appliances, which people of lesser inclination actually pay money to learn in a tech school. Plus, I own all seven seasons of MacGuyver on DVD.

     I’ve had a fairly decent track record for fixing things myself. Computers, vehicles, jewelry, and small electronics have all made it onto my “cracked open and fixed” list. Today I took a shot at a portable air conditioner. It’s one of those free standing models with the flexible hose that looks like a robot arm reaching through the window to warn us of danger. The last few days have seen a decline in its room cooling proficiency, culminating with a stubborn refusal of its compressor to kick on, despite my sternest warnings and withering glares that usually work on smaller machines. No longer willing to tolerate its defiance, my better half instructed me to contact a repair man. I assured her that I would take care of it. After she left, I drug weighty appliance out from its protective corner and prepped for medieval surgery, despite its cries for mercy.

     Before getting started I inspected the unit with a blindingly bright LED flashlight. Within its vented orifices, I spied the problem. The thin metal blades of the coils were completely clogged with dust, allowing absolutely no air to flow through them. I’m no refrigeration expert, but if cleaning the coils on my kitchen fridge keeps it working, then the same was probably true in this case. Diagnosis: household dust induced asthma. Solution: tear it open by any means deemed necessary to clean said dust. My primary tools in this case were screwdrivers, at least three of them. One phillips head for removing screws, and two flat head for prying panels apart to discover where the hidden screws are. Its an old manufacturer’s trick. I’m sure they think that if you can’t figure out how to open the unit up then you will have no choice but to come to them for repairs. I scoff in their collective faces. Simply wedging a screwdriver between panels to find which areas have the least amount of flexibility quickly determines where screws are holding it together. Then you scratch and bang until something falls off, revealing the screw. I feel I’ve perfected this process.

     The air conditioner heaved a final sigh and the plastic case dropped away, revealing that not only was I right, but it was clogged even worse than I was able to see with the flashlight. A combination of brushing and blowing for about half an hour finally got the coil vents clear enough that I could see through them again. It wasn’t perfect, but with my limited tools it would have to do.
     Reassembly, as always, was tricky. You might think that it would simply be a reversal of the opening process. You clearly have never tried to fix something by yourself before. The screws that all looked like they were the same size when you put them into a single pile have magically changed into random lengths. Plus, you have to hold several pieces together in a precise manner with one hand while you discover that what you screwed in with the other hand is the wrong size and now the threads of the hole are stripped out. Being an experienced do-it-yourselfer, I know better than to back out a screw that turns out to be too big for the hole I forced it into. I just take a mental note, get the right sized screw into the opposite side, and move on. Once its all back together the screws are hidden anyway and no one is the wiser.
     Sure enough, fully reassembled and leeching power from the wall outlet, the air conditioner sputtered to life and immediately began cooling the room with such an intensity that I had to adjust its thermostat to a warmer setting. After what we just went through, I’m pretty sure it won’t dare allow its coils to become clogged with dust again. With our hierarchical relationship now established, further problems can be solved with stern warnings and withering glares. Job done.

Hitting the Trail

     Every so often a desire to escape civilization distorts the line between what my head wants to do and what my body is physically capable of. I found a hiking trail that is near to my home that I had never been on. According to what I assumed were credible online sources, the trail climbed up a valley toward some waterfalls, and then if I felt extra adventurous, continued over the mountain and back down the next valley over and returned along the base of the mountain to where it started. The entire loop would take in just over ten miles. There would be some steep inclines, but the information was based on someone who had ridden his mountain bike on the proposed route, so hiking it shouldn’t be a problem.
     I selected some clothing from the athletic gear section of my closet, including trail running shoes, (which I was excited to actually run on a trail with), compression shorts, a bright orange shirt to make my exhausted corpse easy to locate, and compression sleeves for my calves to prevent cramping. I even took my never-before-used Camelback water supply. The day was cool, I had the right gear for the job, and nature’s call reverberated in my ears. I kissed my wife goodbye and headed out.
     Conveniently, a parking lot was located at the base of the trail, so I parked and set off on foot. An official looking sign with a map of the area marked the trailhead. I studied it intensely as I stretched, not knowing what any of it meant. Satisfied that I was limber enough, I began my trudge up the trail. The first part of it turned out to be a kind of access road leading to sluice gates where the city collected water runoff for the reservoir. I followed this, noticing a small footpath that branched off to the left at a steep incline, and ignoring it. About fifteen yards later the access road led to a dead end. I backtracked to the footpath and trudged upwards, both nervous and excited that the actual trail would be wilder than I had previously envisioned.

The flooded trail.

    After about five minutes my calf muscles felt like they were going to pop. Either I was on the wrong trail, or someone lied about being able to ride a bicycle up this mountain. It got so steep that I found myself on all fours just to keep steady as I ascended. Huffing and puffing, I came across my first set of fellow hikers. Four casually dressed women, one of them holding the leash of a big slobbery dog, came sauntering down the trail, happily chatting about whatever housewives chat about. I grinned a sheepish hello, and trudged past them. Either I missed a chairlift somewhere, or I was in worse shape than I thought. I passed several other housewife types, only a couple of which wore any kind of fitness-oriented clothing, and began to get the distinct impression that the out-of-shape tall guy in neon orange would be the topic of discussion for a few gossip circles in the near future. The only other men I saw on the trail were a couple of gentlemen, just a couple of decades past their prime, running shirtless in short-shorts together up the mountain trying to prove that prime is just a state of mind. If I had enough breath, I would argue that point. I had no choice but to assume that I had simply come at the wrong time of day. The real athletes must come bright and early to conquer the mountain before breakfast, just to get a good start to the day. Knowing that I would just be in there way if I went hiking at that time, I resigned to just surviving my current expedition.

    After the first set of switchbacks the incline didn’t exactly level off, but it did reduce enough that my heels started to touch the ground again. And now I was high enough to enjoy the view. This being springtime, the view was spectacular. And as I moved on, it just got better. The sound of rushing water was constant as snowmelt poured through the valley. Recent heavy rains added extra runoff, creating small streams and waterfalls at random intervals all along the trail. At one point, water actually diverted down the trail, forcing me to tromp through it in order to continue on. The crisp water actually felt good as it soaked through my shoes. I began to enjoy myself so much that I forgot that my leg muscles were about to rip through my skin.
     At just over two miles of continuous uphill hiking, according to my gps watch, I reached a small wooden bridge that crossed over waterfalls to the other side of the canyon. As I paused to take a couple of pictures with my phone, I realized that I couldn’t get my legs to stop wobbling. A small voice of common sense broke through the euphoria of standing amid natural wonders and I realized that the ten mile round trip wasn’t going to happen. At least, not yet. I forced myself to turn away from the awesome-looking trail ahead and turned back. At least it would be all downhill from here.
     As it turns out, that’s a stupid saying. After struggling to climb uphill, going downhill is about the most dangerous thing you could do. I think I would have rather kept climbing. What was beautiful going up, became treacherous going down. An entirely different set of leg muscles, ones that I rarely ever used, fought my control. The other muscles were too tired to back them up, so I half crept, half skid back down the mountain. Precarious though it was, I made it back.
     As I climbed back in my car, gasping for breath between sucking down water, I chanced a glance at myself in the rearview mirror. A big goofy grin was plastered on my face. That’s when I knew that I’d be back. Just as soon as feeling returned to my lower extremities.