The US Supreme Court is scheduled to hear cases from companies that want to be able to choose what they'll cover - or not cover - in the health insurance of their employees. Specifically, there are companies that are unwilling to pay for insurance that covers the cost of contraception for women. The basis for this request is that it conflicts with someone's religious values, typically that of the company owner or a controlling interest.
These cases fascinate me. Why? Because I believe that heart attacks, strokes, and cancer are God's way of calling His children back to heaven. So, if you work for me, you won't receive any health care benefits if you have a heart attack, a stroke, or discover that you have cancer. I won't pay for preventive measures, either, such as cholesterol lowering drugs or fitness programs. When the Big Guy calls, you have an obligation to answer (by dying, that is). I'm not about to stand in His way by paying to make you healthy again.
Of course, I'm not serious. Everything in that second paragraph was a joke. I was simply making a point about how UTTERLY DANGEROUS it would be to let employers decide which health care benefits to offer based upon the religious beliefs of some individual or group. You are free to believe anything that you wish. You might even want to make things up in order to try to get out of paying high premiums. You might believe that it makes economic sense to cut health care costs by cutting out some coverage, but this policy is completely unfair to your employees. If they are desperate enough to work for someone who would cheat them out of fundamental health care benefits, they probably don't have many options.
I hope that the Supreme Court will make the right decision and dismiss these cases.
Copyright © 2013 Daniel R. South
All Rights Reserved
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Remembering President Kennedy
We stood
on the dry grass between the two houses. Mrs. Taylor from next door was
whispering. At three and a half, I was about as tall as my mother's hip. She
held my younger sister in her arms as she leaned in to listen. I couldn't hear
their words, but I sensed great concern. I chased dry leaves to keep myself
occupied.
When Dad
came home he sat on the couch riveted to the news. His expression was blank,
shocked. It was the first time that I had ever heard the word 'assassinated',
but I knew immediately what it meant.
Two days
later my father tried to explain a complex series of events. "Oswald shot
Kennedy, and then Jack Ruby shot Owsald." Jack who? - I wondered. It was
more than my young mind could comprehend. It was more than anyone could
comprehend.
We
watched the solemn march on television, the casket pulled by horses. Jackie
stood bravely with her two children. Young John saluted.
This was
my world as a child. A world where even our President could be taken away in a
moment of insanity. A world destined to change in ways that we could not yet
imagine. A nation, shocked and
grieving, yearning for answers, answers that would come slowly and be forever
shrouded in suspicion and in doubt. Our country found itself at the breaking
point, ready to fracture into bitter divisions over race and class and war and
peace and rights and sex and lifestyle.
I can't
imagine where we would be if the incident had never happened, but that day
marked the end of an era and the beginning of a new age, an age of cynicism and
complexity, but also of possibility. One man was gone, and the rest of us would
ever be the same.
Copyright © 2013 Daniel R. South
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2013 Daniel R. South
All Rights Reserved
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Marathon Memories - Tenth Anniversary
Ten years ago this weekend I ran the New York City Marathon.
The day began at 5:30 am after a night of nervous sleep. I showered, dressed, grabbed my pre-packed duffle bag, and hailed a cab to the New York Public Library.
The library was the main pick-up point for shuttle busses to the start. I was concerned about delays - the race had 26,000 registered participants - so I made the decision to take one of the earliest scheduled busses. I watched the sun rise as we passed through Brooklyn.
Holding Area
I arrived at historic Fort Wadsworth at about 8:00 am, nearly three hours before the start. I picked up a bagel, a bottle of water, and two bananas from a stand and looked for a place to pass the time.
There aren't many places to sit at the fort. The grass was wet, but I found a bent tree that could serve as in impromtu bench. I enjoyed my breakfast and slowly and did what I could to relax and conserve energy.
The next step was to drop my duffle bag off at the UPS truck that would carry it to the finish area in Central Park. Runners are assigned to trucks alphabetically by last name. I made a last-minute check to ensure that I had everything that I needed with me: watch, paper towels, handkerchiefs, a bottle of Gatorade and a small bag of pretzels. Once you turn in your sealed bag, they won't give it back to you. I kept an old sweatshirt that I would throw away on purpose once I started running.
I did a bit of light jogging and stretching as a warm up. This might seems like a waste of energy before a long race, but it's a necessary part of my routine.
Eventually, it was time to visit the portable toilets. The lines were long, and many people did what they needed to do along the perimeter fencing. I witnessed several men crouching in full view; the women found a convenient, semi-private spot between two dumpsters where they could take care of certain demanding physical necessities. A few ladies stood like a human screen to shield the person currently in action, but the details were plainly visible if you glanced in their direction. Luckily, my needs weren't as urgent. I stood on line for an hour but without undue discomfort.
Finished with the toilet ordeal, I headed toward my assigned corral. The start was now just ten minutes away.
We heard the starting signal and watched the front runners on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Their sheer speed was amazing. It looked as though they were running away from a pack of hungry lions. It would be impressive to hold that speed for two minutes; these men would run as fast for two hours.
It took me eleven minutes to reach the starting line from my remote corral, but I did cross it eventually, and I was in the race. After all of the months of training, I was running the New York City Marathon.
Accident On The Bridge
Due to my lack of marathon racing history, I started in a corral with a lot of casual (i.e. slow) runners. Many of these folks ran in groups, and getting past these groups proved to be a challenge. I managed to get through okay, but I did see one older gentleman trip and fall while trying to squeeze past one cluster. He seemed to be a bit shaken up, but hopefully not so badly that he had to pull out of the race altogether.
Brooklyn
The Brooklyn leg of the race was relaxed and enjoyable. The route passes through family-oriented neighborhoods, and people cheered all along the way - not in massive crowds, but in a fair-sized steady stream of onlookers. I ran on the left side of the street and gave "high fives" with my left hand to kids along the way. Water/Gatorade stations were bountifully stocked every two miles.
My only frustration with Brooklyn you get stuck in the crowd and have to move along at the crowd's pace. I would have liked to have been running a bit faster, but the runners are so densely packed that passing isn't an option.
Queens
What a difference a river makes! After crossing the small bridge, I entered the urban wasteland of Long Island City, a warehouse district that seems like a place where shady characters might gather after dark for nefarious purposes. Gone were the enthusiastic neighborhood crowds of Brooklyn. Other than fellow racers, a few police officers, and marathon volunteers, I don't recall seeing a living soul in Queens.
Queensboro Bridge
The Queensboro Bridge is long and high. There's no escaping the fact that you'll be running uphill for a while here. After sixteen miles of running, it's a climb that your body isn't going to enjoy.
But even more than the altitude gain, what you notice on the bridge is how eerily quiet it is here. There are no spectators, only runners, and every runner is doing everything they can to save energy. You hear is breathing and footsteps - nothing else. When I think about it, I can remember that sound, or that lack of sound, to this day. I've never experienced anything like it.
But that was about to change.
First Avenue, Manhattan
If I could pick one moment defines the New York City Marathon experience, it would be the transition from the Queensboro Bridge to First Avenue in Manhattan. One minute you're in self-imposed sensory deprivation. The next, you're being cheered on by the race's largest and most vocal crowd of spectators. It's like running into an Olympic stadium. The energy and the enthusiasm that's directed toward the runners is like nothing that I have ever experienced, before or since.
About a mile up the avenue, I spotted my friends who provided me with some additional snacks and a fresh bottle of Gatorade. I assured them that I was still doing fine despite the heat. The afternoon was now at its peak of 76F, a relatively hot day for a long race.
Further up the avenue, just before crossing into The Bronx, I began to feel some discomfort in my troublesome left knee. I pulled to the side to give it a stretch, but the stretching position caused my hamstrings to cramp badly. I wasn't feeling the heat yet, but it was taking a toll on my body despite my consumption of sports drinks and salty snacks. The knee would just have to hang tough. There was nothing more that I could do for it.
The Bronx
The race passes through The Bronx for only a mile. It was similar to running through Brooklyn except shorter and with a lower density of onlookers. Thank goodness it wasn't bleak like Queens.
Returning To Manhattan
I remember crossing back into Manhattan and running around three sides of a small park. A lady saw my name written on my shirt and exclaimed, "Oh, Dan, you look HOT!" I replied, "I AM hot."
The temperature was getting to me. Fifth Avenue was manageable thanks to the cover of trees, but the hills of Central Park of were about to deliver a brutal lesson in humility.
I knew that I had only a few miles left. I was trying to conserve energy for the finish. On one particularly steep upgrade I slowed to a walk for a few steps to take a drink and compose myself. An enthusiastic young fellow spotted me.
"Dan! Dan! You're so close, Dan! Keep going!"
That brought a smile to my face and a jolt of energy to my fatigued body. I started running and never walked again.
The Finish
I came out of the park and turned onto Central Park South. A talented young lady was singing and playing guitar on a bandstand near the Plaza Hotel. I couldn't stop to listen.
I picked up the pace along Central Park South, even though it's one big, brutal upgrade. An acquaintance later recounted that I "didn't look very happy" when I passed him. (Note: It's okay. I grimace when I smile.)
Keep pushing. Keep running. One foot in front of the other.
I made the final turn nto the park where signs count down the remaining distance - 400 meters, 300 meters. These markers probably were meant to be encouraging, but I felt that each one taunt. "You're not done yet, buddy! You still have 300 meters to go! Ha ha!"
The heat had completely fried my brain.
Crossing the finish line seemed a bit anti-climactic. Yes, I was done. I had completed a marathon, and the pride of that considerable accomplishment was not lost on me.
But the race wasn't about the finish - it was about the experience. It was about the months of preparation. About waking up before dawn and keeping myself occupied in the holding corrals. About striding along mile after mile in a sea of runners. About high-fiving all of those enthusiastic kids and onlookers in Brooklyn. About making the climb up that big bridge and descending into the once-in-a-lifetime exhilaration of First Avenue. About overcoming heat and exhaustion in order to tough out those last, taxing miles.
Recovery
The plan is to keep the runners on their feet and walking so no one succumbs to a sudden drop in blood pressure. I'm not sure that this is really a big deal. I have sat down after many long runs without incident. But they do try to keep you walking.
Unfortunately, you run into a traffic jam with other runners and end up standing or walking in uncomfortably short steps while trying not to step on the person in front of you.
Along the way, volunteers hand you your NYC Marathon completion medal. They seem to be genuinely proud of you, which I must admit felt quite nice. Another set of volunteers hands you a snack comprising a banana, a bagel, and a chocolate bar. Bottles of water are available as well.
Eventually, I reached a point where I could sit and eat my snack. When I finished, I looked for my UPS truck. There must have been dozens of trucks parked there, just one component of an amazingly vast operation.
In my bag was an extra bottle of my favorite Gatorade. I enjoyed it as I walked to Lincoln Center where I had agreed to meet my friends. My energy was returning and my enthusiasm along with it. I wasn't experiencing any pain or apparent injury. And I had completed the New York City Marathon, an experience that I would remember and cherish for the rest of my days.
Copyright © 2013 Daniel R. South
The day began at 5:30 am after a night of nervous sleep. I showered, dressed, grabbed my pre-packed duffle bag, and hailed a cab to the New York Public Library.
The library was the main pick-up point for shuttle busses to the start. I was concerned about delays - the race had 26,000 registered participants - so I made the decision to take one of the earliest scheduled busses. I watched the sun rise as we passed through Brooklyn.
Holding Area
I arrived at historic Fort Wadsworth at about 8:00 am, nearly three hours before the start. I picked up a bagel, a bottle of water, and two bananas from a stand and looked for a place to pass the time.
There aren't many places to sit at the fort. The grass was wet, but I found a bent tree that could serve as in impromtu bench. I enjoyed my breakfast and slowly and did what I could to relax and conserve energy.
The next step was to drop my duffle bag off at the UPS truck that would carry it to the finish area in Central Park. Runners are assigned to trucks alphabetically by last name. I made a last-minute check to ensure that I had everything that I needed with me: watch, paper towels, handkerchiefs, a bottle of Gatorade and a small bag of pretzels. Once you turn in your sealed bag, they won't give it back to you. I kept an old sweatshirt that I would throw away on purpose once I started running.
I did a bit of light jogging and stretching as a warm up. This might seems like a waste of energy before a long race, but it's a necessary part of my routine.
Eventually, it was time to visit the portable toilets. The lines were long, and many people did what they needed to do along the perimeter fencing. I witnessed several men crouching in full view; the women found a convenient, semi-private spot between two dumpsters where they could take care of certain demanding physical necessities. A few ladies stood like a human screen to shield the person currently in action, but the details were plainly visible if you glanced in their direction. Luckily, my needs weren't as urgent. I stood on line for an hour but without undue discomfort.
Finished with the toilet ordeal, I headed toward my assigned corral. The start was now just ten minutes away.
We heard the starting signal and watched the front runners on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Their sheer speed was amazing. It looked as though they were running away from a pack of hungry lions. It would be impressive to hold that speed for two minutes; these men would run as fast for two hours.
It took me eleven minutes to reach the starting line from my remote corral, but I did cross it eventually, and I was in the race. After all of the months of training, I was running the New York City Marathon.
Accident On The Bridge
Due to my lack of marathon racing history, I started in a corral with a lot of casual (i.e. slow) runners. Many of these folks ran in groups, and getting past these groups proved to be a challenge. I managed to get through okay, but I did see one older gentleman trip and fall while trying to squeeze past one cluster. He seemed to be a bit shaken up, but hopefully not so badly that he had to pull out of the race altogether.
Brooklyn
The Brooklyn leg of the race was relaxed and enjoyable. The route passes through family-oriented neighborhoods, and people cheered all along the way - not in massive crowds, but in a fair-sized steady stream of onlookers. I ran on the left side of the street and gave "high fives" with my left hand to kids along the way. Water/Gatorade stations were bountifully stocked every two miles.
My only frustration with Brooklyn you get stuck in the crowd and have to move along at the crowd's pace. I would have liked to have been running a bit faster, but the runners are so densely packed that passing isn't an option.
Queens
What a difference a river makes! After crossing the small bridge, I entered the urban wasteland of Long Island City, a warehouse district that seems like a place where shady characters might gather after dark for nefarious purposes. Gone were the enthusiastic neighborhood crowds of Brooklyn. Other than fellow racers, a few police officers, and marathon volunteers, I don't recall seeing a living soul in Queens.
Queensboro Bridge
The Queensboro Bridge is long and high. There's no escaping the fact that you'll be running uphill for a while here. After sixteen miles of running, it's a climb that your body isn't going to enjoy.
But even more than the altitude gain, what you notice on the bridge is how eerily quiet it is here. There are no spectators, only runners, and every runner is doing everything they can to save energy. You hear is breathing and footsteps - nothing else. When I think about it, I can remember that sound, or that lack of sound, to this day. I've never experienced anything like it.
But that was about to change.
First Avenue, Manhattan
If I could pick one moment defines the New York City Marathon experience, it would be the transition from the Queensboro Bridge to First Avenue in Manhattan. One minute you're in self-imposed sensory deprivation. The next, you're being cheered on by the race's largest and most vocal crowd of spectators. It's like running into an Olympic stadium. The energy and the enthusiasm that's directed toward the runners is like nothing that I have ever experienced, before or since.
About a mile up the avenue, I spotted my friends who provided me with some additional snacks and a fresh bottle of Gatorade. I assured them that I was still doing fine despite the heat. The afternoon was now at its peak of 76F, a relatively hot day for a long race.
Further up the avenue, just before crossing into The Bronx, I began to feel some discomfort in my troublesome left knee. I pulled to the side to give it a stretch, but the stretching position caused my hamstrings to cramp badly. I wasn't feeling the heat yet, but it was taking a toll on my body despite my consumption of sports drinks and salty snacks. The knee would just have to hang tough. There was nothing more that I could do for it.
The Bronx
The race passes through The Bronx for only a mile. It was similar to running through Brooklyn except shorter and with a lower density of onlookers. Thank goodness it wasn't bleak like Queens.
Returning To Manhattan
I remember crossing back into Manhattan and running around three sides of a small park. A lady saw my name written on my shirt and exclaimed, "Oh, Dan, you look HOT!" I replied, "I AM hot."
The temperature was getting to me. Fifth Avenue was manageable thanks to the cover of trees, but the hills of Central Park of were about to deliver a brutal lesson in humility.
I knew that I had only a few miles left. I was trying to conserve energy for the finish. On one particularly steep upgrade I slowed to a walk for a few steps to take a drink and compose myself. An enthusiastic young fellow spotted me.
"Dan! Dan! You're so close, Dan! Keep going!"
That brought a smile to my face and a jolt of energy to my fatigued body. I started running and never walked again.
The Finish
I came out of the park and turned onto Central Park South. A talented young lady was singing and playing guitar on a bandstand near the Plaza Hotel. I couldn't stop to listen.
I picked up the pace along Central Park South, even though it's one big, brutal upgrade. An acquaintance later recounted that I "didn't look very happy" when I passed him. (Note: It's okay. I grimace when I smile.)
Keep pushing. Keep running. One foot in front of the other.
I made the final turn nto the park where signs count down the remaining distance - 400 meters, 300 meters. These markers probably were meant to be encouraging, but I felt that each one taunt. "You're not done yet, buddy! You still have 300 meters to go! Ha ha!"
The heat had completely fried my brain.
Crossing the finish line seemed a bit anti-climactic. Yes, I was done. I had completed a marathon, and the pride of that considerable accomplishment was not lost on me.
But the race wasn't about the finish - it was about the experience. It was about the months of preparation. About waking up before dawn and keeping myself occupied in the holding corrals. About striding along mile after mile in a sea of runners. About high-fiving all of those enthusiastic kids and onlookers in Brooklyn. About making the climb up that big bridge and descending into the once-in-a-lifetime exhilaration of First Avenue. About overcoming heat and exhaustion in order to tough out those last, taxing miles.
Recovery
The plan is to keep the runners on their feet and walking so no one succumbs to a sudden drop in blood pressure. I'm not sure that this is really a big deal. I have sat down after many long runs without incident. But they do try to keep you walking.
Unfortunately, you run into a traffic jam with other runners and end up standing or walking in uncomfortably short steps while trying not to step on the person in front of you.
Along the way, volunteers hand you your NYC Marathon completion medal. They seem to be genuinely proud of you, which I must admit felt quite nice. Another set of volunteers hands you a snack comprising a banana, a bagel, and a chocolate bar. Bottles of water are available as well.
Eventually, I reached a point where I could sit and eat my snack. When I finished, I looked for my UPS truck. There must have been dozens of trucks parked there, just one component of an amazingly vast operation.
In my bag was an extra bottle of my favorite Gatorade. I enjoyed it as I walked to Lincoln Center where I had agreed to meet my friends. My energy was returning and my enthusiasm along with it. I wasn't experiencing any pain or apparent injury. And I had completed the New York City Marathon, an experience that I would remember and cherish for the rest of my days.
Copyright © 2013 Daniel R. South
All Rights Reserved
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