The Long Game

As a fun experiment, Allison and I have been unearthing our favorite shows from when we were children. Our kids don’t always understand the references or analog lifestyle, but rewatching Full House has provided an opportunity to show our girls what life was like back then. Compared to entertainment of today, which is chock full of product placement, shock value and CGI, this TGIF anchor feels legitimately wholesome. The big family hug that concludes each episode still manages to warm my cold heart a touch. It’s also great to feel that 90s vibe again. 

I knew it would finally happen. Fashion, as we know (but tend to forget), is cyclical. It was only a matter of time before the style of my youth came all the way back around. The track suits that make regular appearances in Full House would be totally fly in any seasonal lineup today. Those goofy cotton button ups sported by Uncle Joey would go for hundreds in Brooklyn. Nike Air Maxes, once a staple for aspiring cross trainers like myself, are flying off of shelves again. Suburban eight year olds are sporting mullets. I hear some folks are even putting up wallpaper again despite everything we learned. It’s all pretty hilarious.

With the distance between, a quick glance back in time would have you believing we were really kicking ass on the confidence meter. Hair was big. Patterns were bold and plentiful. Our clothing conquered the wind. I distinctly remember seeing the design package for the 1996 Atlanta Olympics and thinking they really nailed it. Then, just like always, yin and yang did their thing. We decided none of that was cool anymore.

My forty first birthday was a few weeks ago, so farewell to this “I just turned 40” business. We’re progressing through the decade I was told for years would be my happiest. And you know what? Seeing it all cycle back around has provided a welcomed reminder.

My historically high blood pressure has been driven, more than anything, by worry about things outside my control. The future has always been an unknown beast that I have felt unprepared to wrangle. Having kids, a wife, and a few respectable animals to care for seemingly magnified this sense of dread. What I’ve come to realize, however, is I have fifteen thousand days worth of data to go off of. Statistically speaking, I can reasonably surmise what the future will hold, and it ain’t so bad. Those fears are largely unwarranted. I’ve also come to realize the following things will continue to hold true.

1. Your day is always more enjoyable in comfortable shoes.

2. Experiences are better than things, and those experiences are better with company.

3. More is rarely an improvement.

4. People are nicer if you just talk to them.

5. Most of things that keep you up at night are quite silly when you put them in perspective

6. It’s a lot easier to just be happy now. Nothing is actually stopping you from this. 

For the first time in 20 years, I went in for an annual physical and my blood pressure was well within the normal range. I asked them to do it again. Hypertension has always been my thing. But maybe, just maybe, I’m finally gaining a little of the perspective that accompanies age.

More often than not, broken things can be fixed. Problems have a resolution out there somewhere. Good eventually raises its head in response to evil. I’ve spent my childhood and adulthood worrying about the future. But now I’ve lived long enough to see the same things be cool twice. It’s a lucid reminder of how silly we are to let fears about the future keep us from enjoying today. 

Y2K came and went. The swarms of murder insects, prosthelytized on nightly news broadcasts since forever, have yet to arrive. All of those presents that people fought over on Black Fridays of yore are now in a landfill somewhere. Might as well accept that even as everything seems to change, it’s really just more of the same repackaged.

I suggest we play the long game and keep those tracksuits. 

Kick the Algo-Rhythm

Am I getting old or is the internet just not as fun as it used to be? Are youths even calling it “The Internet” anymore? Given the number of syllables they’d have to say, I’m doubtful. Back in the nineties, it was a concept even a simpleton like me could understand. You spent so much time dialing up its contents and waiting for them to appear, that interactions were entirely intentional. Building a website took legitimate effort, so people didn’t feel compelled to share their every idiotic thought with the world. To disconnect from the internet, you would go to the one hulking PC that your whole family shared and simply hit the on/off switch.

Three key factors in our current era make my sweet little version of the web seem laughably nostalgic. For starters, devices these days are everywhere and designed specifically not to be turned off. Wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to gather more data on your family! My grill doesn’t even want to go night-night, lest it miss a software update. There is at least one moment every day where I press a button on one of our devices and nothing happens. That layer of intelligence thinks it knows better. Give me the good old days of a solid mechanical click, followed by exactly what I asked for. I’ll live with the consequences.

You can blame another major shift squarely on money. Admittedly, those in my era were a bit spoiled. Some of y’all won’t believe this, but Facebook used to be cool. When it opened to Auburn University students my junior year, enthusiastic coeds rushed to post all their hot party pics and stalk those of others. Online communities blossomed. People shared mostly positive content without worrying about how it would be used. Potential future employers didn’t have access! Neither did our parents!

Many tech giants of today offered a warm & fuzzy feeling back then. Twitter didn’t start out as a place for angry people. Google, Youtube and the like were similarly prioritizing a free, enjoyable experience. Eventually, the party ended. Time to monetize all of the accrued eyeballs and move into the black! Seemingly in a flash, we became the product, sellable to the highest bidder. 

I used to get a chuckle out of the ads that mistakenly pegged me as their audience - a feminine hygiene product interrupting my yoga video or a preview assuming I want to watch people talk about sports (humanity’s dumbest invention). That type of miss rarely happens anymore. The nudges also now include way more than ads. Why only market to someone when you can reliably influence their behaviors? Now that’s where the money is. Then maybe they could convince me to watch those people talk about sports and convert the lead after all. 

In more recent times, discerning between the real and fake has also complicated matters. In our house hangs a picture of my girls together right after Libby was born. I vetoed it (overruled!) because one of them has a photoshopped face from a different image. The moment is accurate in essence but technically a fake. That’s childsplay, however, when compared to what Artificial Intelligence (AI) is capable of. If you’ve spent most of your adult life trusting your eyeballs on what is authentic, then buckle up, partner. You don’t even have to be good at the behind-the-scenes stuff anymore, as any idiot can have a term paper or a realistic looking video of a presidential candidate generated in no time. I never thought I’d have to insert a note that I wrote all of this by myself without the help of AI. 

So where does all this leave us? Dear reader, should I just tell you to get off my lawn so I can return to a polarizing twenty-four-hour news channel and doom scroll my feed? Should I slam a bag of Doritos and let Youtubers tell me their conspiracy theories? Negative. I can do better. We can do better.

Humans, after all, have made it this far. Contrary to what headlines suggest, we’re actually a bunch of independent-thinking, unique beings. Sure it may be tough to find the actual truth but we wrote the code in the first place. The bright ideas of humans propelled us this far into modernity. Surely our ability to be rational, compassionate and understanding can be involved in future progress. It never fails that the person who gets all hot and bothered online is usually much nicer in person. Don’t let the tools that were designed to connect us tear us apart. 

Prior to posting that next rant or angry comment, might I ask you to take a minute and think about it? Are you super duper sure? Is yours the only possible true narrative? Will it all be silly in two hours, next week or years from now?

With an emotional interaction, you are giving the algorithm exactly what it wants - the type of hit that keeps you coming back for more. Without even thinking, that phone will magically be in your hands again, and the loop continues.

Instead, try being unpredictably open minded. Throw off the search engines and advertisers with some out-of-character goodness. Learn something new outside your comfort zone. Use your home devices for their intended purposes, like checking the cooking temp of salmon or telling kid-appropriate jokes. Go talk to people in person without your phone as an ever-present accessory. Call me old fashioned, but I still think our diverse collective can get together and have a good time while also celebrating our differences. Homogeneity sucks. If our feeds must be filled, let them be filled with sweet party pics!  

Fluffy Life Decisions

The average adult makes over thirty thousand decisions each day. The vast majority are trivial. Nobody lives and dies based on how many toilet paper squares you grab. But life will inevitably give rise to weightier choices. What’s my career? Where shall I live? Should I marry this person? What about children? And not necessarily at the top, but decidedly important: Should we get a dog? After all, we’re still living with that same choice we made 16 years ago.

I’m fascinated by how humans make important decisions. Machines might follow a logical path to conclusion but we have this wonderful element called emotion. For my mother and her lineage, the measured purchase of a single television may draw out across years, encompassing countless hours of research and intense debate at holiday gatherings. Conversely, a Chapman could be headed for Oklahoma tomorrow with a trailer ready to go all-in on a random new hobby they just heard about today. This has historically put me at the precarious crossroads of being a collateral beneficiary of Dad’s super fun toys while also agreeing with my mother that it was a silly thing for a person to spend money on.

Allison and I are a balance of these two extremes. One of us will bring up an idea half-jokingly. We’ll both say “not right now” and brush it off. Then, after a few weeks, if it survives incubation, we’ll start texting links to nudge each other. This is when we enter the research phase. A final decision is then rendered by whoever cares the most. In this particular case, that would be the person choosing to light his free time on fire in order to mind a puppy.

We recently saw friends who have made many children and therefore don’t get over to our house as much as they used to. The husband saw our seventy-pound mix breed and asked what the dog’s name was. When I told him it was Lucy, he exclaimed “THIS IS THE SAME DOG!?” Yep, now 112 dog years in, she’s trucking along against all odds. We had Lucy prior to the girls being born, so it has been a life of constant, unwelcomed change. In her stubborn cataract-covered eyes, our little humans do not exist unless they are holding a droppable snack. 

Worth mentioning is that we already housed two cats. Lucy didn’t care for them either. Peter, a gleaming feline poster child, makes delightful conversation and is always fun at parties. Frank, on the other hand, is beautiful but oddly mysterious. Despite their differences, this triumvirate had been relatively easy on us. Our felines are catered to by robots while Lucy sleeps and farts the day away. This is a relatively easy homeostasis to maintain.

My reasoning for expansion was three-fold. For starters, the girls could use a companion that would grow up with them and evoke some character-building responsibility. Secondly, while we await the inevitable with our old girl, she’d prove to be a chill role model for a young impressionable pup. Lastly, out of pure selfishness, I wanted a friend to take along for outdoor adventures. The timing was good, if that is ever possible. 

There is always this moment of recognition when I’m about to do something with large implications. A hotness starts to throb in my ears and then radiates throughout until a thin veneer of sweat begins to form. Whether the setting is a car dealership, a negotiating table or the checkout line at Costco, I have this semi-helpless feeling that the freight train is in motion and all I can do is mentally buckle up. On that beautiful summer morning in Albertville, Alabama I found myself with a whole bunch of furry adoptable cuteness running around. The heat was coming.

How does one choose a best friend? I had already narrowed my dog preferences to male, under seventy pounds and the regular allergenic kind. Fluff is my jam and we have the good Roomba. In surveying options available within these boundaries, my mind naturally went into risk assessment mode. While the hopeless romantic in me couldn’t rule out an instant soulmate connection, statistics favor the middle of the pack. An overly friendly and outgoing guy was cut. As was the little goober who hid in the back, repeatedly getting stuck in precarious positions. Two of the more independent chaps were selected to move on to the holding phase. From there, I Facetimed Allison for input, but the signal isn’t great in Albertville. I was on my own for a final verdict.

Unlike our haphazard adoption with Frank, I was prepared this time with all the things a proper puppy could need. The crate was decked out and Lando Norris Chapman (a name I pre-selected) slipped easily onto a bed made for kings. A pitiful whimper rang out from the back as we drove away from the only home he’d known for two months of life, but Lando settled in for a nap after only a few minutes. My nerves calmed considerably. This was a good sign.

You always remember day one. Everything is new. Normal is thrown out the window while our new paradigm materializes. Not having had a puppy since rearing two human children, I recall scoffing at those who couldn’t stay anywhere for more than an hour because of a silly dog back at home. In a flash, we are those people.

Children are great for helping devalue all the stuff in your house. We’ve seen some wild oopsies over the course of nine years. There’s the incident when our television was busted with a teddy bear. Or that time we learned never to leave a Sharpie sitting around. A day will eventually come when we can finally invest in quality household appointments, but today is not that day. With Lando, however, we were playing a whole new ballgame. I can’t ever recall Maggie eating parts of our actual house.

The chaos of potty training was totally expected. Razor sharp teeth, crazy puppy energy and a short attention span dialed up a cocktail of sheer madness. I would run into the bathroom for what cyclists term a “nature break.” Meanwhile, young Lando would be nibbling away on a tasty door frame. My head was on a perpetual swivel as our entire coterie adjusted. Thought previously to be impossible, Lucy was even more annoyed. The cats were genuinely displeased. Even the enthusiasm of our girls waned as their bite wounds grew in number. Then, to make things more interesting, Allison left the country for a week…

This puppy thing was, after all, my idea. I knew the schedule and had my usual steely-eyed resolve when staring down seven days as an only parent. Normally I would ratchet up the fun a notch so our kids will like me more - offering science experiments, arcades, fun dinners and such. Not this time. In between soccer and dance commitments, we banded together to shape Lando into a respectable citizen. 

While the mayhem between puppy naps was often maddening, one couldn’t help but laugh at the little quirks that emerged as Lando’s personality blossomed. We offered a pile of toys and things to chew upon, yet an iconic yellow cup from a filthy bar in Tuscaloosa was all this pup needed. Lando would prance back to the shower, cup in mouth, so he could bark with maximum acoustics. Maddeningly, his favorite party trick was to nip the toilet paper dangling in the hallway bathroom, then joyfully gallop as far as he could before getting caught. In one go, he managed over fifty feet of run, then did all he could to suspend the reclamation project. 

As days of incessant rain hemmed us all indoors, Chapman house began to show the strain of being a very cute war zone. Areas that had previously brought me moments of peace and tranquility were now barricaded due to the mysterious gravitational pull they had on young Lando’s genitals. I aspire to a rational level of cleanliness, which also brings me joy. Less joy filled my heart, however, as I personally handled gallons upon gallons of puppy excrement. There was one touching baby parallel, thankfully, that had me getting used to the experience. Y’all are all friends, so I can admit this to you. There were several times when I was still chewing on carrots, grapes, nuts, etc. and already working a newly discovered cleanup site. Mine is always the weakest of stomachs, but maybe that’s a little love creeping in to get me through it.

Silver linings were struggling to outpace the not so great times. Three days into Allison’s trip, we reached a low point. For such moments, it was a familiar setting…on my knees in front of a toilet. This time the circumstances planting me there were more mechanical in nature - a clog that was defying both logic and reason. Lando’s toilet paper hobby had caught up with us, as had the lack of available drinking toilets for Lucy (she’s a classy gal). I had tried multiple plungers, boiling water, my own flippin’ bare hands, a coat hanger and a 6 foot plumbing snake. Sitting down had become a concept of the past, as I was either reigning in the fury or preparing battlements while the beast slept. To top it all off, our frantic movement about the house had led to several accessories being ripped clean off the walls. Two new holes in the sheetrock and a busted sliding door lay in wait. As Allison casually sipped rosé and snacked on Hungarian delights next to the Danube, I was losing my flipping mind. 

The light of a new day brought with it a cautious optimism and an increased plumping budget. Doing is the only way I know how to cope in times of crisis. For his part, Lando certainly intuited a correlation between my anger at the toilet and his actions. He sheepishly cooled his belly on our tile floor as I fished ever further into our pipes. When the clog finally let loose, I rode that serotonin boost down the hall to our assorted other projects. There’s something very empowering about spackling over your sins.

Meanwhile, we had a little dude that was starting to pick up on the lack of screams when he used the bathroom outside. Lando was trying to please us, or at least get as many reward treats as possible. The scales were tipping in a favorable direction.

On Friday morning, the girls and I were optimistic. The weekend offered a bit of relief from our hectic schedule. It also meant that we would be a complete foursome again soon. As had become typical, I leapt from bed in a rush to get Lando outside, back in to eat, then back out again before anything unwanted could exit him. The girls were fed and readied in spurts as I darted back and forth. Requiring another nature break myself, I took solace back in our master bath for a solitary minute or two. Then a tiny little howl of terror rang out, followed by frantic puppy yelps all the way down the hallway…

About sixteen years ago, the Chapman clan was gathering for a lovely afternoon at my parents’ house. Allison and I, engaged at the time, had brought Lucy over for her first meet and greet with everyone. Indy, the hosts’ lovable black labrador, greeted all guests with his usual benign disposition. Things were going swimmingly until young Lucy’s bouncy enthusiasm rubbed Indy the wrong way. One jump too many was all it took to elicit a quick bite to the face. Along with a fresh cut across her snout, Lucy’s face now bore the expression of a dog who had just realized the world was not a safe and wonderful place. Pitiful yelps lasting for minutes not only broke our hearts, but could be heard clear across Jeffferson county. She still has the scar, and frankly hasn’t been the same dog since.

Back in 2024, I burst out of the bathroom all out of sorts. The room was still dark due to our mad morning rush, but I could faintly see a ball of fluff hurriedly making its way under our bed. With Lando recovered, I checked for damage. On his snout was a massive gash, open and bleeding everywhere. His puppy heart rate was blasting out of the stratosphere, but familiar comfort was calming him down. On the bottom of his chin was another notable cut. A tiny black flake of puppy nose dangled loose in the front, creating the saddest of all visuals. 

Throughout all this, my two animal-loving children were still sitting in the kitchen, casually making their way through their respective bowls of cereal as if nothing had happened. As witnesses, they were of no use. I told them as much, but they could at least confirm that Lucy was nearby when it happened. A quick look to my right and the old girl was standing there, her graying face looking guilty as hell. 

Having paralleled the moment at hand with the scar that still sat visibly on Lucy’s face, it all felt a bit surreal. Was there some twisted canine initiation our dogs must endure in order to properly understand the real world? It pained me, however, to think of sweet Lando changing his sunny outlook. Though his shenanigans to this point had been numerous, they were at least carried out with a smile.  

Thankfully, we already had Lando’s first check up scheduled that morning with my brother-in-law. I can’t tell you how convenient it is to have a veterinarian in the family. Uncle Jason, as we refer to him in the company of our pets, glued lil’ Lando’s nose skin back together while deftly avoiding curious little nips of a completely unphased pup. Our little guy was back to his old happy-go-lucky ways, at least until Uncle Jason snuck up the back entrance for a fecal sample. I don’t know if there can be a funnier look on an animal’s face than when they get that surprise. 

With Allison back on this side of the Atlantic, we began to hit our stride. Mornings were no longer a game of high stakes traffic control. Toilet paper rolls started to feel safe again. Our nights were reliably quiet as Lando settled into the familiarity of his crate. With the girls gaining confidence, we all learned how to act more appropriately around a creature that doesn’t know any better. Once folks stopped excitedly screaming at his face, he mirrored that calmer demeanor. 

Maggie really stepped up along the way, as I hoped she would. While weathering occasional bites and scratches, she took some initiative to train young Lando. Libby occasionally picks her snack wrappers off the floor now. That warms my heart. 

While Frank has gone into almost permanent hiding, Peter doesn’t much mind cohabitating with another dog. He just sticks to higher ground these days. Lucy is greeted first by Lando each morning and you can see it in her face that maybe she thought it was all a bad dream until that point.  

Meanwhile, Allison and I are smitten. I was worried initially about Lando playing favorites in the motherly direction, but I feed him more often so you can guess where that loyalty sits at present. We’re getting much more outside time, regardless of weather conditions. This has been a welcome adjustment, except maybe for some of the neighbors who have seen me chasing a dog in my undies. After a while, you simply forget that laying in bed later on the weekend was an option. If a creature is that stoked to get started with his day, it tends to rub off on you a bit.

As for the future, our little guy will continue to grow and experience all the things that a human teenager does, just on a more extreme timeline. There will be inevitable bumps in the road. But a friend adeptly cut to the chase, asking “Would any dollar amount buy Lando back now that you’ve had him for a month? Absolutely not. He’s family now. And, while we’re talking about money, it’s time to convince Allison that we really need a bright orange Vespa with a sidecar.

DJ Chappalicious: A Day in The Life

5:32 am

Hoover, Alabama

The sun has yet to come up over Veterans Park, but on the day of a big event, I find it best to be early. Spirits were high as my early morning stealth had not allowed any alarms of the furry or normal variety to disturb my slumbering ladies. Something was strange, however. On a day where thousands of people would be running a variety of races from a 5k all the way up to a full marathon, this location that hosted last year’s event was devoid of any of the usual infrastructure. 

With shaky hands I grabbed my phone and went to the race home page, which maybe I should have done prior to this moment. While the host city remained the same, I quickly realized that our 2024 start line was now twenty minutes across town. With a bit of hustle and knowledge that Hoover’s police force was largely tied up at my destination, I spirited the Subaru westward. I could still make it on time and my boss would never know. 

Anna had most certainly told me about the change. The race director, not by coincidence, is my Italian cousin by marriage. We see each other regularly and team up each Christmas to turn out heaping pans of handmade raviolis. In life and especially on race day, Anna does not suffer fools. 

5:56 am

I arrive as the sound crew is wrapping up their setup. Crisis averted. Still, no need to tell anyone who the big dummy is this morning. The scene is already frantic enough, light barely peeking through to illuminate tents, equipment, barricades, banners and faces of the usual suspects. This is the eighth edition of our mini-reunion, where we are all accustomed to our part in the show. Anna’s dad fronts the post-race band. Her college friends manage volunteers. Representatives from the charity smile warmly and greet everyone as they dart about in their name badges. And me? Well, I’m DJ Chappalicious. 

The short explanation of how I got to this point is that I throw a pretty excellent party. Entertaining other humans is my sacred duty in life. With that kind of mindset, how can you not own a very outsized PA system for your band that only plays house parties that you throw? While also being involved with events not held at my bachelor pad, it became apparent that people put an outrageous premium on background music. I could engineer diligently for two days at my normal job and make less than it paid to sit in a parking lot on a Saturday morning for a few hours and set my playlist in motion. No record scratching for this guy. If there was any concern over job security, however, it evaporated in the nervy moments where someone must own the mic and communicate to the eager throngs who await instruction. It was a good ride, but now my alter-ego only makes an appearance once per year as a volunteer. I still feel the butterflies though.

5:58 am

The AV crew wants a final check on assorted sound inputs, which is why I’m making OSHA jokes and fiddling with the latch on a scissor lift. A group warmup, our first scheduled activity of the morning, is to be led from an elevated position next to the start line. I’m impersonating the CrossFit trainer who is not yet present so we can get a level on his hands-free mic. My voice echoes through the recreational complex. Birds scatter. Startled volunteers do their early morning best to turn “who’s this obnoxious idiot?!” faces into those of understanding. Once solidly back on earth, I feel much more comfortable with a trusty corded number that I can follow all the way to the sound board. When you have seven hours to go, it is best not to be worrying about batteries. 

6:00 am 

Anna has provided two copies of the announcement bullet points, which sit atop my designated table under my designated tent. I have a chair too. Much has changed since year one, like how we’ve outgrown my personal sound system. No matter what, we both know the next hour is going to be nuts. With thousands of humans about to flood in and get their endorphin fix, you can only embrace that there will be chaos. That’s why there are two copies and the paper is card stock.

6:04 am

I take a quick lap to inventory the various stations required at every event (medical, timing, bag check, etc.). Inevitably, I will be asked about all of them. My closest neighbor introduces herself as Mrs. Kim, who looks like the active grandmother everyone wants to have. We chat briefly before she directs her energy to the pile of freshly printed t-shirts before her. I vow to find a song that gets Mrs. Kim dancing before the day is out. 

6:10 am

Time to start the music. When you are breaking the ice, it’s best to come in at a low volume and build. For this reason, and because it’s my guiltiest pleasure song, I selfishly chose Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” Reason would suggest that you simply create a playlist and let it ride in this situation, but my preference is to read the room. I might amass a four or five-song buffer, but those hundred or so decisions are all intentional. Oh, you want to hear more of my professional DJ tips!? I’m so flattered.

DJ Chappalicious’ first rule of deejaying is to not oversaturate with the same artist. Absolutely no repeats of the same song, no matter how long you are playing. This also applies to car rides. As in public speaking, you must always consider the audience. Do not force your niche introspective indie tracks on a crowd who’s simply there to run as fast as they can. As much as it may pain you, pander to the demographics represented. There is good music to be found in every genre and generation that will make those toes tap. Lastly, and more recent in establishment: Zach Bryan is not party music. If you want to ride around in your truck alone and be sad, by all means go ahead. 

6:15 am

I’ve just made the first announcement to a few hundred who mill about nervously. The downside to calling all of this attention my direction is that now anyone with a doubt in their mind is thinking about coming to me with a question. I can see it in their eyes. My table becomes an impromptu lost & found as someone has already misplaced their keys. Another, their debit card. We’re off to a hot start.

6:40 am

Yoga is more often my go-to these days, but I’m still a runner. The energy before a race is palpable. I get a little anxious even as a spectator. Any distance on our agenda would require a legit level of willingly applied discomfort, but the marathon is a silly undertaking. I’ve weathered a few and it simply feels like you run, and run, and run for an entire day. Time slows to a crawl as you strip away every motivation save sheer stubbornness, nay well-informed stupidity. Forgive my language, but when I see the faces of these brave souls walking up, I just want to yell “hell yeah dudes and lady dudes!” straight into that microphone. Instead, I dutifully mention our sponsors. Early and often!

The masses were hoving into view, and they had needs, occasionally of the ridiculous variety. There will always be a few. I fielded as many questions as I could without escalating up the chain of command. Most were easy changes at the timing tent, some requests were not deliverable even with the help of science. Mental reminder of Anna’s motto: “This is all for charity.” 

6:45 am

Pressure builds as we begin clipping through the posted schedule. I pass along operating instructions for the mic, which clips out a few times during warm-up. No biggie. Participants are bouncing around, the blood is flowing and they are slowly migrating toward the start line. But wait! We’ve hit a snag.

Traffic. I guess it’s a good sign when your event draws a headcount that can clog roads built to withstand the SEC Championship. Anna calls an audible and we push the start back by five minutes. All good. The timing company and I have a visual/verbal confirmation routine that can adapt to such a situation. We’re not launching a missile, just pressing start on a fancy clock.

6:52 am

I resolve to draw things out a bit by letting the prayer and Pledge of Allegiance breathe a bit. Chelsie then did her patriotic duty with a soulful extended rendition of the national anthem. An awkward lull could have followed, but I was ready with Wannabe by Spice Girls. Then why not thank those sponsors again.

7:04 am

I do not thirst for power. When it is handed to me, however, I’m a bit more cautious than I used to be. As mentioned previously, getting this thing going should have been as easy as an amplified countdown of “3-2-1, Go!” but I could not see a soul from the timing team. Without the high sign, I could not willingly lose the full corral of runners who eyed me with waning patience. The fifteen seconds that followed just about made my heart explode, but protocol was followed. I enthusiastically set marathon, half-marathon and ten-mile participants in motion with the howling intro of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song. It feels good.

7:18 am

On to the next wave, which contains all of the 5k and 10k runners. With this many races happening all at once, I offer a reminder that everyone needs to pay attention or else they might end up running further than they had bargained for. Once you reach a critical mass, someone is bound to go off course. You can throw up a barricade, put a police officer at the intersection and paint directions on the road, but at least one goober will inevitably defy logic. I’ve witnessed top-tier professionals run past dozens of “Half marathon finish straight ahead” signs only to turn with the marathon route and lose. This time, when I do the countdown, there is no awkward pause. The crowd streams by in a wave of smiles. I breathe a sigh of relief.

We’ve reached the much-appreciated lull.

7: 30 am

At this point, I’m glad to be where I am and not trotting along the pavement. It’s going to be a hot day, which is a bit worrying for anyone expecting Alabama to be mild in October. The hardest thing I have to do now is decide what artists from my well-oiled playlist are off-limits this year. Dave Grohl is currently in the news for making a baby with not his wife. Diddy is probably going to jail for a long time, but hasn’t officially been convicted yet. Molly, a long-time volunteer, is my sounding board as we collectively decide that it’s ok to drop some Notorious BIG on ‘em with Diddy doing whatever he does in the background.

“Poppa been smooth since days of Underoos”

7:35 am

With everyone out on course, I’m searching for a volumetric sweet spot that entertains without deafening patrons. Before me is a herd of volunteers who will be handing out medals to every finisher today. This is a thankless job. Standing in the unrelenting sun for many hours, they play a high stakes game of roulette that involves navigating sweat, wobbly legs and even puke. Given their proximity and the fact Mrs. Kim has joined their ranks, I decide to use this group of ladies as my litmus test for the groove I’m laying down.

8:22 am

After announcing winners coming down the chute for our shorter races, I get to put the microphone down. We started off by calling every name of every runner in the early years, but I’m super thankful that is no longer the case. With timing and scoring updates, I get a precious second or two to make my best guess at a pronunciation and then own it at 100 decibels. You very quickly start to hate the sound of your own voice. Plus, people will stop you on the street to tell you how bad you messed up their name.

8:50 am

After verbally directing about a hundred people to the timing and scoring tent and explaining that my Spotify playlist did not contain their race results, I took some managerial initiative. With the aforementioned extra agenda, I fashioned a makeshift sign that read “Timing & Scoring that way” with an arrow to make it obvious. Albeit, I still had a friendly face so there were interlopers occasionally needing a finger point to the sign. These are the liberties one acquires after years of dedicated service

9:15 am

A good race director knows not to remain still for too long. The queue will form out of nowhere as people word vomit their own personal emergencies at you. Anna was simply checking on me when an older gentleman cornered her with a “greetings young lady” vibe. She was helpful and patient, but I did laugh pretty good when her response to “Do you know anything about the course?” was “A little.” My dad always allowed me to say the word “ass” in polite company as long as it sat in the riddle of what ASSUME really stands for. 

10:00 am

The winner of the marathon would have gotten arrested for public intoxication if he were in a normal setting, but you almost expect that level of fatigue with 84 degrees and high humidity. A brave soul steps in to keep him upright. All communication is exaggerated, and one imagines they are checking to see if he knows what day it is. October 6th. No it isn’t always this hot, but you are tempting fate here in Alabama with a furry Halloween costume.

Our last running event of the day kicks off and I’m reminded of the year that Anna asked me to lead the kid’s fun run. I don’t mean in a controlled pace car sense. The duty notably required that I be faster than the children while also steering the mob down a clear and correct path. It was total chaos but a freakin’ rush I tell you.

10:35 am

There comes a point where most participants have finished, chugged some after-party brews and are already on their way to church. But the team and volunteers, who have long since lost their early morning buzz, know we still have a closed course until the six hour time cutoff. This is where you find something to occupy your mind, otherwise the minutes will tick by at a snail’s pace. Runners have a similar experience manipulating time. The group aiming to barely make it will have spent almost an entire work day putting one foot in front of another on warming tarmac. It is a soul exploration that can feel like an eternity. 

10:42 am

Mrs. Kim has shimmied. She’s in a chair handing out medals when Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus awakens the crowd a bit. It never fails. Noting that the vast majority of my audience are ladies, I decide to pull a thread that’s familiar in the Chapman house. Time to show off some of my girl dad skills.

10:57 am

Yeah we’re getting it now. Pitbull & Kesha get the crowd going with Timber. Friends grab one another to swing their partner round and round. My own rule is tested as I spin Only the Young by Taylor Swift, her second contribution (So it Goes was first). That song totally slaps on a big sound system. Water bottles are being used as pretend microphones at this point. I’m killing it. 

And then Mrs. Kim really joins in. Lauryn Hill finally got her over the edge. Mission accomplished!

11:24 am

My extra special wristband will get me anywhere I want to go. It also comes with free food and drink. I queue up songs for a much-needed break and humbly defer to the donut vendor on which icing is best. Chef recommended strawberry, which was curiously well stocked this late in the day. A hidden treasure!

Having passed through the food line, I stood perplexed for a moment as to where the napkins resided. My eating habits are not civilized. Condiments are always falling out everywhere. It was a bit concerning that I was staring down a saucy sandwich without protection.

But as I aimlessly scanned the room, it occurred to me that a napkin was actually the least of my worries. When thinking about what was set to play in my stead, the lyrics for House of Pain’s seminal hit Jump Around came flashing back, especially the part about “I never eat a pig, cause a pig is a cop.”

One of the first people to greet me in the still dark hours of the morning had been the police captain. With at least twenty of his finest involved in our event, and the fact that they had Anna patched directly into their radio channel, I thought it best to high step it back and change the future.  

12:05 pm

It’s a good time to stretch and catch up with everyone. Runners are coming every few minutes at this point. The heat has taken its toll on a few out of state marathoners. I also hear that a local along the route backed their car into a runner. You never want any of this to happen, but it is virtually impossible to shut off an entire 26.2 miles. Just as runners will get lost, civilians along the route sometimes display the worst sides of humanity. If you ever find yourself impeded for a bit because of a well-intentioned event, please be nice. It’s for charity.

12:45 pm

We’re almost there. I’m indulging in a frosty Coors Light and no longer defend my rules as friendly requests fly in. The battle hardened few that remain demand their Taylor Swift and they shall have it. An enthusiastic group reaches full fever pitch during Style. The song lifts their exhausted friend across the line and they all swarm her for what must be months worth of instagram content. 

The whole scene is a pleasant reminder of what music can do and what people can accomplish. Don’t you love being genuinely happy for someone?

1:05 pm

I ask for an extra moment to let some Adele play out before the sound crew flips a switch on my day. The load-out will continue for many hours, but my cargo thankfully is just a laptop. With another successful gig in the books, I slip back into a blazing hot car seat and life as boring regular Chappy.

Truckin'

I have been witness to much handiness over the years. There is a diploma in my closet that belies a thorough understanding of physics. The spectacular nature in which I can fail at simple tasks, however, can sometimes baffle all comers. If we’re self-analyzing, I would pin much of my failure on the desire to do things without assistance. Such stubborn resolve tends to get hella dangerous when heavy, sharp or moveable (bonus if you have all 3!) implements are involved. 

I wonder how much of this hubris can be chalked up to genetics. The Chapman men, while being noted do-it-yourselfers, have a long history of getting in over our heads. Impressive failure is quite effective as a primary teaching method, plus the stories are lit. Fireworks, believe it or not, can set your cousin on fire if used incorrectly. If there is a tornado in the area, don’t leave shelter to “go have a look.” When sharing a boat with another fishing enthusiast, it’s best to hook the fish instead of your compatriot's face. Sure you could simply be told this, or you could be witness to the barb stuck in uncle Pat. Tell me what method is more impactful.

With so many memorable life lessons stored away, you’d think I would simply know better by now.

Over lunch on Tuesday, I had the pleasure of catching up with two long-time friends. They asked how I fill my days since taking a break from work. Instead of listing out things, I instead opted for the weighted priorities. Number one: keep my family happy. For this week, completing that directive meant that I would be renting a trailer from U-Haul and trucking some cargo for  our Labor Day vacation. This was a perfectly reasonable request. 

Vehicle purchases are an area where I devote oodles of thought. I hear people say they are not car people, and that’s a perfectly fine way to be. Especially with younger children, that thing in the driveway can seem like a rolling trash can simply delivering utility. The default in my neck of the woods for any red-blooded male is a big ass truck or truck-adjacent SUV. Because I wear a lot of Patagonia hats and prefer something sportier, this season of life finds me in a Subaru Ascent. My tow hitch is such a de-prioritized feature that it lives hidden behind a piece of plastic that masks as bumper. Subaru people are, by and large, more apt to use it as a way to attach assorted racks for carrying all of their outdoorsy paraphernalia. 

Someone once told me that the largest U-Haul location, by size, happens to be the one closest to my house. The acres of pavement abut a Red Lobster, which my firefighter friend has seen the kitchen of and accordingly refuses to eat there. This is not a block we are eager to put on the poster. Yet such convenience does afford ample opportunity to fill one’s American belly with unlimited shrimp while figuring out what to do with all your extra stuff. When I pulled out of the U-Haul Store successfully attached to my five by nine-foot rig, there was a fury of rattling metal at every transition, but otherwise smooth sailing until the final stretch.

My mother spent over forty years in the insurance industry and regularly reminds us that almost 80% of car accidents happen within 15 miles of home. Statistically, we spend most of our time in that range, so it makes sense. The familiarity of everything can also cause us to put our guard down. I am constantly dodging walkers, scooter children, a cat named Mowgli who occasionally pops out of drains and (notably) some very hazardous bumps down the stretch. We like to say that if you can make it out of the neighborhood, then the rest of your adventure should be a piece of cake.

If you are unfamiliar with the City of Vestavia Hills, where we live, the name is a solid clue what you are in for topographically. There is not a flat place in which to park a trailer. But I had to immediately turn the ship around and pick up the kids from school, so I thought it best to drop it in the driveway real quick. First mistake.

I hopped out and disconnected, figuring I could make short work of it by simply walking twelve hundred rolling pounds into place on our flat-ish parking pad out front. It instantly started building speed when loosened and I knew where things were quickly headed. Our steep yard would only assist in adding momentum and from there it was full speed ahead all the way down to our minister’s house. 

At the last possible moment, I lunged forward and pushed the tongue as hard as I could in a perpendicular direction to the hill. Mercifully, the trailer turned back uphill and came to a precarious stop in the front yard. I said some things that my mother wouldn’t be proud of as I surveyed the scene. Sweat rolled down across a pair of dusty scraped hands. The whole front of my big toe had been skinned and that was starting to bleed like crazy, because of course I had sandals on for this adventure. Side note - I’m the guy who will happily point out every knucklehead pressure washing, lifting things or chopping with open-toed footwear, but I’m just as dumb. The skinned toe was a nice compliment to the one on my other foot that I had broken doing laundry a week previous. Dear reader, I live an extreme life.

After some further salty language, a little bit of ingenuity and a change of clothes, the trailer was parked somewhat safely on the street and loaded with a dining room table I really should have asked for help with. 

Early the next morning, I loaded in the last of our items then lined up to reconnect the Subaru. Not surprisingly, this did not go well. With a full load and no handy jack in place to steady the tongue, it started rolling on me again. For sure I was ready this time with a few well-placed wheel chocks, but the dance of moving them a little, then repositioning the hitch was maddening. When I finally succeeded, I was once again drenched in sweat. For some reason, the clamp didn’t seem to be screwing down as far as it had previously. After some furious attempts at tightening it as much as possible, I attached the chains, connected lights and started off down the hill.

I was still descending when one wheel hit a deep rut and the other caught a different one. In one of the more terrifying things I’ve witnessed in my rearview mirror, the trailer removed itself from the hitch and took a course independent of the vehicle. In a panic and with pedestrians on the road ahead of me, I stopped. The trailer slammed into the Subaru with a sickening thud. 

Believe it or not, my driving record is impeccable. I’ve never been in an accident while behind the wheel. The sound and force that came through the chassis, however, sounded expensive. I stepped out to survey the damage. One of the walkers who had witnessed the scene asked “Do you need help!?” before qualifying with “I wouldn’t know what to do here but I can call someone for you.” I must have looked a treat, sweat-dampening the third shirt that morning with assorted cuts on my hands.

Through some miracle of miracles, the front of the trailer had dropped right before impact, missing the bodywork entirely. It had glanced off the connection hardware before ramming into, get this, the spare tire. There were some superfluous plastic pieces up underneath that had seen better days, but they would all be hidden from view when I eventually reattached the bumper cover. Instead of using my still shaking hands to call Allison, I instead put it all back together (correctly this time) and carried on my way as if nothing had happened.

The rest of my cautious and solitary trip provided plenty of time for introspection. I’m not one to live life with regrets, but yeesh the previous twenty-four hours had been an unnecessarily wild ride. Certainly, my age requires that more patience and thoughtfulness be employed in dangerous situations. How lucky am I that disaster struck within walking distance of my house and with no lasting damage? What if this had all played out on the interstate just a few miles later?

As my journey came to a close, The Grateful Dead’s “Touch of Grey” fittingly was the last song to play. When Jerry Garcia sings “Every silver linings got a touch of grey” I instinctively stroke my sideburns, which are starting to betray the future color of my mostly brown hair, knowing I’ve probably just accelerated the process a bit. I continue on, dear reader - not particularly wiser but possibly better prepared against my own future stupidity.