Is the opposite of a marathon a slowathon? If so, sign me up.

I don’t understand triathlons, weight lifting, channel swimming, mountain scaling or the Tour de France. The only yellow jersey I will ever wear will be one of cowardice. I have no desire to beat my body to a pulp to achieve an adrenaline induced state of nirvana. I’m saving my adrenaline for dangerous situations that come uninvited.

When I first heard the term “sports medicine” I thought someone was joking. My second grade health book told me the purpose of sports was to build a “healthy body and mind”. Now a billion dollar a year sports medicine industry exists to repair torn ligaments, ripped muscles and ravaged joints.

When asked why he climbed Mt. Everest, a famous mountain climber stated, “Because it is there.”

My problem is I know the mountain will be there whether I climb it or not. Nor will I be more “there” if I climb it. What I might very possibly be, however, is injured, maimed or dead, no jolly outcomes from my vantage point.

This kind of thinking is not going to make me rich or famous, America’s most prized cultural values. But I will have plenty of time for long strolls on the beach. That’s my idea of a splendid slowathon.

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I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but a significant number of the sparkling new cars on the road now are reincarnations of station wagons. Of course, no one is calling these vehicles station wagons. That would be way too old-fashioned. They are called crossovers, which sounds vaguely transgender.

I, however, recognize a station wagon when I see one. In our family history of vehicle ownership, we owned one, our beloved, mud brown Ford Torino wagon.

Nobody pretended our Torino was glamorous. We bought it because we had two kids, one who always got carsick, and we all loved to travel. Bear in mind, this was in an era when seat belts hadn’t been invented. Our road sick passenger could take a dramamine and stretch out on a mattress in the back. Her sibling could share the “way back” or have an entire back seat to himself. Our kids became great travelers (still are), and we enjoyed being with them.

We got our station wagon in the 1970s – just about the same time our American schools threw out all the geography books. Kids were apparently supposed to learn the globe by osmosis. My daughter told me many years later that she had a working knowledge of geography, unlike many of her peers, only because we “went places”.

Many happy trips and our Wisconsin winters took their toll on our faithful brown wagon. Specifically, our back tailgate totally rusted out. We certainly didn’t want our children to roll out somewhere in the Plains States.

My father-in-law, an auto body man who lived in Tucson, came to the rescue. One day the kids and I drove to the local truck terminal to pick up a big crate. Our almost new, rust-free Arizona tailgate had arrived… and it was bright red.

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(This blog is dedicated to Judith, Nick Nick and Tin Tin)

I recently came across a small story I wrote for children many years ago. Here it is in its entirety.

This is a little story about two dodos, Lulu and Mimi, who lived in New York, New York. Lulu liked to dance the cha cha with her pom poms. Mimi would can can in her pink tutu for hours. Both Lulu and Mimi liked to yo-yo in time to tom-tom music. When the dodos weren’t dancing or yo-yoing, they would eat their favorite foods, bonbons and pawpaws. But all good things must end.

One day Lulu waved bye bye and boarded a choo choo for Baden Baden, Germany. The next day Mimi took a choo choo bound for Pago Pago, Samoa. These trips were two big boo-boos. Everybody knows you can’t take trains to Baden Baden and Pago Pago… you have to take boats. What dodos!

No one has seen Lulu or Mimi since. The end.

Rumor has it that Lulu has turned up in Walla Walla, Washington where she is now a go go dancer (a go go dodo). She dines on mahi-mahi.

Mimi, ever the artist, has been spotted in Lapu-Lapu in the Philippines where she is doing art in the Dada style. She listens to Lang Lang in her spare time and drives a Nano from Tata Motors.

If you hear news of these irrepressible dodos or their friends, send emails or postings chop chop.

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One of the newest words in the Merriam Webster Dictionary is “locavore”. The word is defined as a person who only eats locally sourced food.

As lovely as this concept may be, I will never achieve locavore status. Those of you who know me realize that I can’t grow grass, let alone something as agriculturally challenging as a tomato.

If I ever did succeed in getting a foodstuff to sprout, I’m sure our animal friends in the Tooley Cafe, locavores all, would view the garden as a delightful annex to the Cafe.

Since gardening is ruled out, I would have to resort to gathering. This course is also problematic.

For example, we have a local cheese factory and creamery fifteen miles northwest of our house. It features 100 Wisconsin cheeses, butter made on the premises and 50 cent ice cream cones (in case you need a cholesterol fix before you get the cheese and butter home). Unfortunately, the store that supplies our house with toilet paper, laundry soap and cat food is fifteen miles in the opposite direction.

It gets worse. Our local farmers’ markets are 15 miles away at other compass points, and their hours of operation coincide perfectly with my work hours.

At this point you might be viewing me as the perfect subscriber to a weekly produce delivery (aka “a surprise box”) from a local farm.

Alas, I’m not that noble! The thought of coming home from work to an overflowing crate of turnips and kohlrabies or 75 zucchinis is completely unbearable. I foresee no “Animal, Vegetable, Miracles” for me.

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